Please 

handle  this  volume 

with  care. 

The  University  of  Connecticut 
Libraries,  Storrs 


as$* 


pBgS 


1 


O  71 


7J  r"  i  «-< 


.  * 

Pi 


/• 


m 


?  f 

L  O  D  O   R  E.  ; 


BY    THE 


AUTHOR   OF   "FRANKENSTEIN.** 


In  the  turmoil  of  out  lives, 
Men  are  like  politic  states,  or  troubled  seas, 
Tosse  I  up  and  down  with  several  storms  and  tempests, 
Change  and  variety  of  wrecks  and  fortunes; 
Till,  labouring  to  the  havens  of  our  homes, 
We  struggle  for  the  calm  that  crowns  our  ends. 

Fobs. 


fFRANKLIN   LIBRARY   EDITION.} 


HERTFORD: 
PUBLISHED  BY  SILAS  ANDRUS  &  SON. 
1846. 


■*- 


LODORE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Absent  or  dead,  still  let  a  friend  be  dear, 
A  sigh  the  absent  claims,  the  dead  a  tear. 

Pope. 

In  the  flattest  and  least  agreeable  part  of  the  county  of  Essex,  about  fn?# 
miles  from  the  sea,  is  situated  a  village  or  small  town,  which  may  be  kno>»»* 
in  these  pages  by  the  name  of  Longtield.  Longfield  is  distant  eight  mi!«g 
from  any  market  town,  but  the  simple  inhabitants,  limiting  their  desires  to 
their  means  of  satisfying  them,  are  scarcely  aware  of  the  kind  of  desert  in 
which  they  are  placed.  Although  only  fifty  miljp  from  London,  few  among 
them  have  ever  seen  the  metropolis.  Some  claim  that  distinction  from 
having  visited  cousins  m  Lothbury  and  viewed  the  lions  in  the  tower. 
There  is  a  mansion  belonging  to  a  wealthy  nobleman  within  four  miles, 
never  inhabited,  except  when  a  parliamentary  election  is  going  forward. 
No  one  of  any  pretension  to  consequence  resided  in  this  secluded  nook, 
except  the  honourable  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry  ;  she  ought  to  have  been 
the  shining  star  of  the  place,  and  she  was  only  its  better  angel.  Benevo- 
lent, gentle,  and  unassuming,  this  fair  sprig  of  nobility  had  lived  from  youth 
to  age  in  the  abode  of  her  forefathers,  making  a  part  of  this  busy  world, 
only  through  the  kindliness  of  her  disposition,  and  her  constant  affection  for 
one  who  was  far  away. 

The  mansion  of  the  Fitzhenry  family,  which  looked  upon  the  village 
green,  was  wholly  incommensurate  to  our  humblest  ideas  of  what  belongs 
to  nobility  ;  yet  it  stood  in  solitary  splendour,  the  Great  House  of  Long- 
field.  From  time  immemorial,  its  possessors  had  been  the  magnates  of  the 
village ;  half  of  it  belonged  to  them,  and  the  whole  voted  according  to  their 
wishes.'  Cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  they  claimed  "here  a  considera- 
tion and  a  deference,  which,  with  the  moderate  income  of  fifteen  hundred 
a  year,  they  would  have  vainly  sought  elsewhere. 

There  was  a  family  tradition,  that  a  Fitzhenry  had  sat  in  parliament ; 
but  the  time  arrived  when  th  y  were  to  rise  to  greater  distinction.  The 
father  of  the  lady,  whose  name  has  been  already  introduced,  enjoyed  all 
the  privileges  attendant  on  being  an  only  child.  Extraordinary  efforts  were 
made  for  his  education.  He  was  placed  with  a  clergyman  near  Harwich, 
and  imbibed  in  that  neighbourhood  so  passionate  a  love  for  the  sea,  that, 
though  tardily  and  with  regret,  his  parents  at  last  permitted  him  to  pursue 
a  naval  career.  He  became  a  brave,  a  clever,  and  a  lucky  officer.  In  a 
contested  election,  his  father  was  the  means  of  ensuring  the  success  of  the 
government  candidate,  and  the  promotion  of  his  son  followed.  Those  were 
the  glorious  days  of  the  English  navy,  towards  the  close  of  the  American 
war :  a^d  when -that  war  terminated,  and  the  admiral,  now  advarued  con- 
siderably ueyood  middle  life,  returned  to  the  Sabine  farm,  of  wnicb  he  had, 
'by  course  of  djpoent,  become  proprietor,  he  returned  adorned  with  the  rank 
of  a  peer  of  the  realm,  and  with  sufficient  wealth  to  support  respectably  the 
dignity  of  the  baronial  title. 


4  LODORE. 

Yet  an  obscure  fate  pursued  the  house  of  Fitzhenry,  even  in  its  ennobled 
condition.  The  new  lord  was  proud  of  his  elevation,  as  a  merited  reward  ; 
but.  next  to  the  deck  of  his  ship,  he  loved  the  tranquil  precincts  of  his  pater- 
nal mansion,  and  here  he  spent  his  latter  days  in  peace.  Midway  in  life, 
he  had  married  the  daughter  of  the  rector  of  Longfield.  Various  fates  had 
attended  the  offspring  of  this  union  ;  several  died,  and  at  the  time  of  his 
being  created  a  peer,  Lord  Lodore  found  himself  a  widower,  with  two 
children  —  Elizabeth,  who  had  been  born  twelve  years  before,  and  Henry, 
whose  recent  birth  had  cost  the  life  of  his  hapless  and  lamented  mother. 

But  those  days  were  long  since  passed  away ;  and  the  first  Lord  Lodore, 
with  most  of  his  generation,  was  gathered  to  his  ancestors.  To  the  new- 
sprung  race  that  filled  up  the  vacant  ranks,  his  daughter  Elizabeth  appeared 
a  somewhat  ancient  but  most  amiable  maiden,  whose  gentle  melancholy 
was  not  (according  to  innumerable  precedents  in  the  traditions  regarding 
unmarried  ladies)  attributed  to  an  ill-fated  attachment,  but  to  the  disasters 
that  had  visited  her  house,  and  still  clouded  the  fortunes  of  her  family. 
What  these  misfortunes  originated  from,  or  even  in  what  they  consisted, 
was  n^t  exactly  known  ;  especially  at  Longfield,  whose  inhabitants  were 
no  adepts  in  the  gossip  of  the  metropolis.  It  was  believed  that  Mrs.  Eliza- 
bet  Ms  brother  still  hv^d  :  that  some  very  strange  circumstances  had  attend- 
ee his  career  in  life,  was  Known  ;  but  conjecture  fell  lame  when  it  tried  to 
proceed  beyond  these  simple  facts.  It  was  whispered,  as  a  wonder  and  a 
secret,  that  though  Lord  ^Lodore  was  far  away,  no  one  knew  where,  his 
lady  (as  the  Morning  Post  testified  in  its  lists  of  fashionable  arrivals  and 
fashionable  parties)  was  a  frequent  visiter  to  London.  Once  or  twice  the 
bolder  gossips,  male  or  female,  had  resolved  to  sound  (as  fney  called  it) 
Mrs.  Elizabe%i  on  the  subject.  But  the  fair  spinster,  though  inoffensive  to 
a  proverb,  and  gentle  beyond  the  wont  of  her  gentle  sex,,  was  yet  gifted 
with  a  certain  dignity  of  manner,  and  a  quiet  reserve,  that  checked  these  good 
people  at  their  very  outset. 

Henry  Fitzhenry  was  spoken  of  by  a  few  of  the  last  generation,  as  hav- 
ing been  a  fine,  bold,  handsome  boy  —  generous,  proud,  and  daring;  he 
was  remembered,  when  as  a  youth  he  departed  for  the  continent,  as  riding 
fearlessly  the  best  hunter  in  the  field,  and  attracting  the  admiration  of  the 
village  maidens  at  church  by  his  tall  elegant  figure  and  dark  eyes  ;  or, 
when  he  chanced  to  accost  them,  by  a  nameless  fascination  of  manner, 
joined  to  a  voice  whose  thrilling  silver  tones  stirred  the  listener's  heait  un- 
aware. He  left  them  like  a  dream,  nor  appeared  again  till  after  his  father's 
death,  when  he  paid  his  sister  a  brief  visit.  There  was  then  something  sin- 
gularly grave  and  abstracted  about  him.  When  he  rode,  it  was  not  among 
the  hunters,  though  it  was  soft  February  weather,  but  in  the  solitary  lanes, 
or  with  lightning  speed  over  the  moors,  when  the  sun  was  setting  and 
shadows  gathered  round  the  landscape. 

Again,  some  years  after,  he  had  appeared  among  them.  He  was  then 
married,  and  Lady  Lodore  accompanied  him.  They  stayed  but  three  days. 
There  was  something  of  fiction  in  the  way  in  which  the  appearance  of  the 
lady  was  recorded.  An  angel  bright  with  celestial  hues,  breathing  heaven, 
and  spreading  a  halo  of  calm  and  light  around,  as  it  winged  swift  way 
amidst  the  dusky  children  of  earth :  such  ideas  seemed  to  appertain  to 
the  beautiful  apparition,  remembered  as  Lord  Lodore's  wife.  She  was  so 
young,  that  time  played  with  her  as  a  favourite  child  ;  so  ethereal  in  look, 
that  the  language  of  flowers  could  alone  express  the  delicate  fairness  of  her 
skin,  or  the  tints  that  sat  upon  her  cheek  :  so  light  in  motion,  and  so  grace- 
ful. To  talk  of  eye  or  lip,  of  height  or  form,  or  even  of  the  colour  of  her 
hair,  the  villagers  could  not,  for  they  had  been  dazzled  by  an  assemblage  of 
charms  before  undreamt  of  by  them.  Her  voice  won  adoration,  and" her 
smile  was  as  the  sudden  withdrawing  of  a  curtain  displaying  paradise  upon 


L0D9RE.  5 

earth.     Her  lord's  tall,  manly  figure,  was  recollected  but  as  a  back-ground 

—  a  fitting  one  —  and  that  was  all  they  would  allow  to  him  —  for  this  re- 
splendent imase.  Nor  was  it  remembered  that  any  excessive  attachment 
was  exhibited  between  them.  She  had  appeared  indeed  but  as  a  vision  — 
a  creature  from  another  sphere,  hastily  gazing  on  an  unknown  wo  .Id,  and 
lost  before  they  could  mark  more  than  that  void  came  again,  and  she  was 
gone. 

Since  that  time,  Lord  Lodore  had  been  lost  to  Longfield.  Some  few 
months  after  Mrs.  Elizabeth  visited  London  on  occasion  of  a  christening, 
and  then,  after  a  long  interval,  it  was  observed,  that  she  never  mentioned 
her  brother,  and  that  the  name  of  his  wife  acted  as  a  spell,  to  bring  an  ex- 
pression of  pain  over  her  sedate  features.  IViuch  talk  circulated,  and  many 
blundering  rumours  went  their  course  through  the  village,  and  then  faded 
like  smoke  in  the  clear  air.     Some  mystery  there  was — Lodore  was  gone 

—  his  place  vacant :  he  lived  ;  yet  his  name,  like  those  of  the  dead,  haunted 
only  the  memories  of  men,  and  was  allied  to  no  act  or  circumstance  of  pres- 
ent exiscence.  He  was  forgotten,  and  the  inhabitants  of  Longfield,  re- 
turning to  their  obscurity,  proceeded  in  their  daily  course,  almost  as  happy 
as  if  they  had  had  their  lord  among  them,  to  vary  the  incidents  of  their  quiet 
existence  with  the  proceedings  of  the  "  Great.  House.'' 

Yet  his  sister  remembered  him.  In  her  heart  his  image  was  traced  indel- 
ibly—  limned  in  the  colours  of  life.  His  form  visited  her  dreams,  and  was 
the  unseen,  yet  not  mute,  companion  of  her  solitary  musings.  Years  stole 
on,  casting  their  clouding  shadows  on  her  cheek,  and  stealing  the  colour 
from  her  hair,  but  Henry,  but  Lodore,  was  before  her  in  bright  youth  — 
her  brother  —  her  pride  —  her  hope.  To  muse  on  the  possibility  of  his 
return,  to  read  the  few  letters  that  reached  her  from  him,  till  their  brief  sen- 
tences seemed  to  imply  volumes  of  meaning,  was  the  employment  that 
made  winter  nights  short,  summer  days  swift  in  their  progress.  This 
dreamy  kind  of  existence,  added  to  the  old-fashioned  habits  which  a  recluse 
who  lives  in  a  state  of  singleness  is  sure  to  acquire,  made  her  singularly 
unlike  the  rest  of  the  world  — causing  her  to  be  a  child  in  its  ways,  and 
inexpert  to  detect  the  craftiness  of  others. 

Lodore,  in  exile  and  obscurity,  was  in  her  eyes,  the  first  of  human  beings  ; 
she  looked  forward  to  the  hour,  when  he  would  blaze  upon  the  world  with 
renewed  effulgence  as  to  a  religious  promise.  How  well  did  she  remem- 
ber, how  in  grace  of  person,  how  in  expression  of  countenance,  and  dignity 
of  manner,  he  transcended  all  those  whom  she  saw  du-ing  her  visit  to  Lon- 
don, on  occasion  of  the  memorable  christening:  that  from  year  to  year  this 
return  was  deferred,  did  not  tire  her  patience,  nor  diminish  her  regrets.  He 
never  grew  old  to  her —  never  lost  the  lustr^  of  early  manhood  ;  and  when 
the  bovish  caprice  which  kept  him  afar  was  sobered,  so  she  framed  her 
thouihts,  by  the  wisdom  of  time,  he  Would  return  again  to  bless  her  and  to 
adorn  the  world.  The  lapse  of  twelve  years  did  not  change  this  notion, 
nor  the  fact  that,  if  she  had  cast  up  an  easy  sum  in  arithmetic,  the  parish 
register  would  have  testified,  her  brother  had  now  reached  the  mature  ago 
of  fifty. 


1* 


LODORE, 


CHAPTER  II. 


Settled  in  some  secret  nest, 
In  calm  leisure  let  me.  rest* 
And  far  off  the  pui'lie  stage, 
Pass  away  my  silent  as?e. 

Seneca.  — Marzelts  TVans. 


Twelve  years  previous  to  the  opening  of  this  tale,  an  English  gentle- 
man, advanced  to  middle  age,  accompanied  by  an  infant  daughter,  and  her 
attendant,  arrived  at  a  settlement  in  the  district  of  the  Illinois  in  North 
America.  It  was  at  the  time  when  this  part  of  the  country  first  began  to 
be  cleared,  and  a  new  comer,  with  some  show  of  property,  was  considered 
a  welcome  acquisition.  Still  the  settlement  was  too  young,  and  the  people 
were  too  busy  in  securing  for  themselves  the  necessaries  of  life,  for  much 
attention  to  be  paid  to  any  thing  but  the  "  overt  acts  "of  the  stranger  —  the 
number  of  acres  which  he  bought,  which  were  few,  the  extent  of  his  clear- 
ings, and  the  number  of  workmen  that  he  employed,  both  of  which  were, 
proportionately  to  his  possession  in  land,  on  a  far  larger  scale  than  that  of 
anv  of  his  fellow  colonists.  Like  magic,  a  commodious  house  was  raised 
on'a  small  height  that  embanked  the  "swift  river — every  vestige  of  forest 
disappeared  from  its  immediate  vicinity,  replaced  by  agricultural  cultivation; 
and  a  sarden  bloomed  in  the  wilderness.  His  labourers  were  many,  and 
golden  harvests  shone  in  his  fields,  while  the  dark  forest,  or  unfilled  plain, 
seemed  yet  to  set  at  defiance  the  efforts  of  his  fellow  settlers;  and  at  the 
same  time  comforts  of  so  civilized  a  description,  that  the  Americans  termed 
them  luxuries,  appeared  in  the  abode  and  reigned  in  the  domestic  arrange- 
ments of  the  Englishman,  although  to  his  eye  every  thing  was  regulated  by 
the  strictest  regard  to  republican  plainness  and  simplicity. 

He  did  not  minde  much  in  the  affairs  of  the  colony,  yet  his  advice  was 
always  to  be  commanded,  and  his  assistance  was  readily  afforded.  He 
superintended  the  operations  carried  on  on  his  own  land  ;  and  it  was  ob- 
served that  they  differed  often  both  from  American  and  English  modes  of 
agriculture.  When  questioned,  he  detailed  practices  in  Poland  and  Hun- 
gary, and  gave  his  reasons  why  he  thought  them  applicable  to  the  soil  in 
question.  Many  of  these  experiments  of  course  failed  ;  others  were  emi- 
nently successful.  He  did  not  shun  labour  of  any  sort.  He  joined  the 
hunting;  parties,  and  made  one  on  expeditions  that  went  out  to  explore  the 
neighbouring  wilds,  and  the  haunts  of  the  native  Indians.  He  gavt-,  money 
for  the  carrving  on  any  necessary  public  work,  and  came  forward  willingly 
when  called  upon  for  any  useful  purpose.  In  any  time  of  difficulty  or  sor- 
row —  0n  the  overflowing  of  the  stream,  or  the  failure  of  a  crop,  he  was 
earnest  in  his  endeavours  to  aid  and  to  console.  But  with  all  this,  there 
•v/as  an  insurmountable  barrier  between  him  and  the  other  inhabitants  of 
the  colony.  He  never  made  one  at  their  feasts,  nor  mingled  in  the  familiar 
communications  of  daily  life  ;  his  dwelling,  situated  at  the  distance  of  a  full 
mile  from. the  village,  removed  him  from  out  of  the  very  hearing  of  their 
festivities  and  assemblies.  He  might  labour  in  common  with  others,  but 
his  pleasures  were  all  solitary,  and  he  preserved  the  utmost  independence 
as  far  as  regarded  the  sacred  privacy  of  his  abode,  and  the  silence  he  kept 
in  all  concerns  regarding  himself  alone. 

At  first  the  settlement  had  to  struggle  with  all  the  difficulties  att?ndant 
on  colonization.     It  grew  rapidly,  however,  and  bid  fair  to  become  a  busy 


v  LODORE.  7 

*nd  targe  town,  when  it  met  with  a  sudden  check.  A  new  spot  was  dis- 
covered, a  few  miles  distant,  possessing  peculiar  advantages  for  commer- 
cial purposes.  An  active,  enterprising  man  engaged  himself  in  the  task  of 
establishing  a  town  there  on  a  larger  scale  and  with  greater  pretensions. 
He  succeeded,  and  its  predecessor  sunk  at  once  into  insignificance.  It  was 
matter  of-  conjecture  among  them  whether  Mr.  Fitzhenry  (so  was  named 
th?  English  stranger)  would  remove  to  the  vicinity  of  the  more  considerable 
town,  but  no  such  idea  seemed  to  have  occurred  to  him.  Probably  he  re- 
joiced in  an  accident  that  tended  to  render  his  abode  so  entirely  secluded. 
At  first  the  former  town  rapidly  declined,  and  many  a  log  hut  fell  to  ruin  ; 
but  at  last,  having  sunk  into  the  appearance  and  name  of  a  village,  it  con- 
tinued to  exist,  bearing  few  marks  of  that  busy  enterprising  stir  which  usu- 
ally characterizes  a  new  settlement  in  America.  The  ambitious  and 
scheming  had  deserted  it  —  it  was  left  to  those  who  courted  tranquillity, 
and  desired  the  necessaries  of  life  without  the  hope  of  great  future  gam. 
It  acquired  an  almost  old-fashioned  appsaranee.  The  houses  began  to 
took  weatherworn,  and  none  with  fresh  faces  sprung  up  to  shame  them. 
Extensive  clearings,  suddenly  ehecked,  gave  entrance  to  the  forests,  with- 
out the  appendages  of  a  manufacture  or  a  farm.  The  sound  of  the  axe 
was  seldom  heard,  and  primeval  quiet  again  took  possession  of  the  wild. 
Meanwhile  Mr.  Fitzhenry  continued  to  adorn  his  dwelling  with  imported 
conveniences,  the  result  of  European  art,  and  to  spend  much  time  and 
labour  in  making  his  surrounding  land  assume  somewhat  of  the  appear 
ance  of  pleasure-ground. 

He  lived  in  peace  and  solitude,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  the  unchanging 
tenor  of  his  life.  It  had  not  always  been  so.  During  the  first  three  or  four 
years  of  his  arrival  in  America,  he  had  evidently  been  unquiet  in  his  mind, 
and  dissatisfied  with  the  scene  around  him.  He  gave  directions  to  his 
workmen,  but  did  not  overlook  their  execution.  He  took  great  pains  to 
secure  a  horse  whose  fiery  spirit  and  beautiful  form  might  satisfy  a  fastidious 
connoisseur.  Having  with  much  trouble  and  expense  got  several  animals 
of  English  breed  together,  he  was  perpetually  seen  mounted  and  forcing 
his  way  amid  the  forest  land,  or  gallopping  over  the  unencumbered  country. 
Sadness  sat  on  his  brow,  and  dwelt  in  eyes,  whose  dark  large  orbs  were 
peculiarly  expressive  of  tenderness  and  melancholy, 

*'  Pietosi  a  riguardare,  a  mover  parchi." 

Often,  when  in  conversation  on  uninteresting  topics,  some  keen  sensation 
would  pierce  his  heart,  his  voice  faltered,  and  an  expression  of  unspeak- 
able wretchedness  was  imprinted  on  his  countenance,  mastered  after  a 
momentary  struggle,  yet  astounding  to  the  person  he  might  be  addressing. 
Generally  on  such  occasions  he  would  seize  an  immediate  opportunity  to 
break  away  and  to  remain  alone.  He  had  been  seen,  believing  himself 
unseen,  making  passionate  gestures,  and  heard  uttering  some  wild  ex- 
clamations. Once  or  twice  he  had  wandered  away  into  the  woods,  and 
not  returned  for  several  days,  to  the  exceeding  terror  of  his  little  household. 
He  evidently  sought  loneliness,  there  to  combat  unobserved  with  the  fierce 
enemy  that  dwelt  within  his  breast  On  such  occasions,  when  intruded 
upon  and  disturbed,  he  was  irritated  to  fury.  His  resentment  was  ex- 
pressed in  terms  ill  adapted  to  republican  equality — and  no  one  could 
doubt  that  in  his  own  country  he  had  filled  a  hish  station  in  societv,  and 
been  educated  in  habits  of  command,  so  that  he  involuntarily  looked  upon 
himself  as  of  a  distinct  and  superior  race  to  the  human  beings  that  each 
day  crossed  his  path.  In  general,  however,  this  was  only  shown  by  a 
certain  loftiness  of  demeanour  and  cold  abstraction,  which  might  annoy, 
but  could  not  be  resented.  Any  ebullition  of  temper  he  was  not  backward 
to  atone  for  by  apology,  and  to  compensate  by  gifts. 


9  LODORE. 

There  was  no  tinge  of  misanthropy  in  Fitzhenry's  disposition.  Erea 
while  he  shrunk  from  familiar  communication  with  the  rude  and  unlettered, 
he  took  an  interest  in  their  welfare.  His  benevolence  was  active,  his  com 
passion  readily  afforded.  It  was  quickness  of  feeling,  and  not  apathy,  that 
made  him  shy  and  retired.  Sensibility  checked  and  crushed,  an  ardent 
thirst  for  sympathy,  which  could  not  be  allayed  in  the  wildernesses  oi 
America,  begot  a  certain  appearance  of  coldness,  altogether  deceptive.  He 
concealed  his  sufferings  —  he  abhorred  that  they' should  be  pried  into  ;  but 
this  reserve  was  not  natural  to  him,  and  it  added  to  the  misery  which  his 
state  of  banishment  occasioned* 

n  Quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a  hell." 

And  so  was  it  with  him.  His  passions  were  powerful  and  had  been  ungov- 
erned.  He  writhed  beneath  the  dominion  of  sameness  ;  and  tranquillity, 
allied  to  loneliness,  possessed  no  charms.  He  groaned  beneath  the  chains 
that  fettered  him  to  the  spot,  where  he  was  withering  in  inaction.  They 
eaused  unutterable  throes  and  paroxysms  of  despair.  Ennui,  the  demon, 
waited  at  the  threshold  of  his  noiseless  refuge,  and  drove  away  the  stirring 
hopes  and  enlivening  expectations,,  which  form  the  better  part  of  life.  Sen- 
sibility in  such  a  situation  is  a  curse  :  men  become  "  cannibals  of  their  own 
hearts ;"  remorse,  regret,  and  restless  impatience  usurp  the  place  of  more 
wholesome  feeling :  every  thing  seems  better  than  that  which  is  ;  and  soli- 
tude becomes  a  sort  of  tangible  enemy,  the  more  dangerous,  because  it 
dwells  within  the  citadel  itself.  Borne  down  by  such  emotions.  Fitzhenry 
was  often  about  to  yield  to  the  yearnings  of  his  soul,  and  to  fly  from  repose 
into  action,  however  accompanied  by  strife  and  wretchedness  ;  to  leave 
America,  to  return  to  Europe,  and  to  face  at  once  all  the  evils  whieh  he  had 
journeyed  so  far  to  escape.  He  did  not  — he  remained.  His  motives  for 
flight  returned  on  him  with  full  power  after  any  such  paroxysm,  and  held 
him  back.  He  despised  himself  for  his  hesitation.  He  had  made  his  choice, 
and  would  abide  by  it.  He  was  not  so  devoid  of  manliness  as  to  be  desti- 
tute of  fortitude,  or  so  dependent  a  wretch  as  not  to  have  resources  in  him- 
self He  would  cultivate  these,  and  obtain  that  peace  which  it  had  been 
his  boast  that  he  should  experience. 

It  came  at  last.  Time  and  custom  accomplished  their  task,  and  he  be- 
came reeoneSed  to  his  present  mode  of  existence.  He  grew  to  love  his 
home  in  the  wilderness.  It  was  all  his  own  creation,  and  the  pains  and 
thought  he  continued  to  bestow  upon  it,  rendered  it  doubly  his.  The  mur- 
mur of  the  neighbouring  river  became  the  voice  of  a  friend;  it  welcomed 
him  on  his  return  from  any  expedition  ;  and  he  hailed  the  first  echo  of  it 
that  struck  upon  his  ear  from  afar,  with  a  thrill  of  joy. 

Peace  descended  upon  his  soul.  He  became  enamoured  of  the  inde- 
pendence of  solitude,  and  the  sublime  operations  of  surrounding  nature. 
All  farther  attempts  at  cultivation  having  ceased  in  his  neighbourhood,  from 
year  to  year  nothing  changed,  except  at  the  bidding  of  the  months,  in  obe- 
dience to  the  varying  seasons  ;  —  nothing  changed,  except  that  the  moss 
grew  thicker  and  greener  upon  the  logs  that  supported  his  roof,  that  the 
plants  he  cultivated  increased  in  strength  and  beauty,  and  that  the  fruit- 
trees  yielded  their  sweet  produce  in  greater  abundance.  The  improvements 
he  had  set  on  foot  displayed  in  their  progress  the  taste  and  ingenuity  of 
their  projector  :  and  as  the  landscape  became  more  familiar,  so  did  a  thou- 
sand associations  twine  themselves  with  its  varied  appearances,  till  the 
forests  and  glades  became  as  friends  and  companions. 

As  he  learned  to  be  contented  with  his  lot,  the  inequalities  of  humour, 
and  singularities  of  conduct,  which  had  at  first  attended  him,  died  away* 
He  had  grown  familiar  with  the  persons  of  his  fellow -colonists,  and  their 


LODORE.  9 

various  fortunes  interested  him.  Though  he  could  find  no  friend,  tempered 
like  him,  like  him  nursed  in  the  delicacies  and  fastidiousness  of  the  socie- 
ties of  the  old  world  ;  — though  he,  a  china  vase,  dreaded  too  near  a  colli- 
sion with  the  brazen  ones  around ;  yet,  though  he  could  not  give  his  confi- 
dence, or  unburden  the  treasure  of  his  soul,  he  could  approve  of,  and  even 
feel  affiction  for  several  among  them.  Personal  courage,  honesty,  and 
frankness,  were  to  be  found  among  the  men  ;  simplicity  and  kindness 
among  the  women.  He  saw  instances  of  love  and  devotion  in  membe  s 
of  families,  that  made  him  sigh  to  be  one  of  them ;  and  the  strong  senbe 
and  shrewd  observations  of  many  of  the  elder  settlers  exercised  his  under- 
Itanding.  They  opened,  by  their  reasonings  and  conversation,  a  new 
»ource  of  amusement,  and  presented  him  with  another  opiate  for  his  too 
nusy  memory. 

Fitzhenry  had  been  a  patron  of  the  fine  arts  ;  and  thus  he  had  loved 
iooks,  poetry,  and  the  elegant  philosophy  of  the  ancients.  But  he  had  not 
been  a  student.  His  mind  was  now  in  a  fit  state  to  find  solace  in  reading, 
and  excitement  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  At  first  he  sent  for  a  few 
books,  such  as  he  wished  immediately  to  consult,  from  New-York,  and 
made  slight  additions  to  the  small  library  of  classical  literature  he  had 
ori  jinally  brought  with  him  on  his  emigration.  But  when  once  the  desire 
to  instruct  himself  was  fully  aroused  in  his  mind,  he  became  aware  how 
slight  and  inadequate  his  present  library  was,  even  for  the  use  of  one  mam 
Now  each  quarter  brought  chests  of  a  commodity  he  began  to  deem  the 
most  precious  upon  earth.  Beings  with  human  forms  and  human  feelings 
he  had  around  him;  but,  as  if  made  of  coarser,  half-kneaded  clay,  they 
wanted  the  divine  spark  of  mind  and  the  polish  of  taste.  He  had  pined 
for  these,  and  now  they  were  presented  to  him.  Books  became  his  friends-: 
they,  when  rightly  questioned,  could  answer  to  his  thoughts.  Plato  could 
elevate,  Epictetus  calm  his  soul.  He  could  revel  with  Ovid  in  the  imagery 
presented  by  a  graceful,  though  voluptuous  imagination  ;  and  *hang  en- 
chanted over  the  majesty  and  elegance  of  Virgil.  Homer  was  as  a  dear  and 
revered  friend  — Horace  a  pleasant  companion.  English,  Italian,  German, 
and  French,  all  yielded  their  stores  in  turn  ;  and  the  abstruse  sciences  were 
jften  a  relaxation  to  a  mind,  whose  chief  bane  was  its  dwelling  too  entirely 
upon. one  idea.  He  made  a  study,  also,  of  the  things  peculiarly  befitting 
his  present  situation  ;  and  he  rose  in  the  estimation  of  those  around,  as  they 
became  aware  of  his  talents  and  his  knowledge. 

Study  and  occupation  restored  to  his  heart  self-complacency,  which  is  an 
ingredient  so  necessary  to  the  composition  of  human  happiness.  He  felt 
himself  to  be  useful,  and  knew  himself  to  be  honoured.  He  no  longer 
asked  himself,  "  Why  do  I  live  ?"•  or  looked  on  the  dark,  rapid  waves,  and 
longed  for  the  repose  that  was  in  their  gift.  The  blood  flowed  equably  in 
his  veins  ;  a  healthy  temperance  regulated  his  hopes  and  wishes.  He 
could  ai;ain  bless  God  for  the  boon  of  existence,  and  look  forward  to  future 
years,  if  not  with  eager  anticipation,  yet  with  a  calm  reliance  upon  the 
power  of  good,  wholly  remote  from  despair. 


10  LODORE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Miranda.  —  Alack  ?  what  trouble 
Was  I  then  to  you  ! 

Prospuro.  —  Oh,  a  cherubim 


,  Thou  wast,  that  did  preserve  me  !  ~  /    L  ^ml.*^J 

#h+kfi9k<^  The  Tempest.      }h*fl**P*m'' 

Such  was  the  Englishman  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the  fartr.  est  wilds  of 
an  almost  untenanted  portion  of  the  globe.  Like  a  Corinthian  column,  left 
single  amidst  the  ruder  forms  of  the  forest  oaks,  standing  in  alien  beauty,  a 
type  of  civilization  and  the  arts,  among  the  rougher,  though  perhaps  not  less 
valuable,  growth  of  Nature's  own.  Refined  to  fastidiousness,  sensitive  to 
morbidity,  the  stranger  was  respected  without  being  undei stood,  and  loved 
though  the  intimate  of  none. 

Many  circumstances  have  been  mentioned  as  tending  to  reconcile  Fitz- 
henry  to  his  lot ;  and  yet  one  has  been  omitted,  chiefest  of  all ;  —  the  growth 
and  development  of  his  child  was  an  inexhaustible  source  of  delight  and 
occupation.  She  was  scarcely  three  years  old  when  her  parent  first  came 
to  the  Illinois.  She  was  then  a  plaything  and  an  object  of  solicitude  to  him, 
and  nomine"  more.  Much  as  her  father,  loved  her,  he  had  not  then  learned 
to  discover  the  germ  of  the  soul  just  nascent  in  her  infant  form ;  or  to 
watch  the  formation,  gradual  to  imperceptibility,  of  her  childish  ideas.  He 
would  watch  over  her  as  she  slept,  and  gaze  on  her  as  she  sported  in  the 
garden,  with  ardent  and  unquiet  fondness  ;  and,  from  time  to  time,  instil 
some  portion  of  knowledge  into  her  opening  mind  :  but  this  was  all  done 
by  snat<jhes,  and  at  intervals.  His  affection  for  her  was  the  passion  of  his 
soul ;  but  her  society  was  not  an  occupation  for  his  thoughts.  He  would 
have  knelt  to  kiss  her  footsteps  as  she  bounded  across  the  grass,  and  tears 
glistened  in  his  eyes  as  she  embraced  his  knees  on  his  return  from  any  ex- 
cursion ;  but  her  prattle  often  wearied  him,  and  her  very  presence  was 
sometimes  the  source  of  intense  pain. 

He  did  not  know  himself  how  much  he  loved  her,  till  she  became  old 
enough  to  share  his  excursions  and  be  a  companion.  This  occurred  at  a 
far  earlier  age  than  would  have  been  the  case  had  she  been  in  England, 
living  in  a  nursery  with  other  children.  There  is  a  peculiarity  in  the  edu- 
cation of  a  daughter,  brought  up  by  a  father  only,  which  tends  to  develop 
early  a  thousand  of  those  portions  of  mind,  which  are  folded  up,  and  often 
destroyed,  under  mere  feminine  tuition.  He  made  her  fearless,  by  making 
her  the  associate  of  his  rides  ;  yet  his  incessant  care  and  watchfulness,  the 
observant  tenderness  of  his  manner,  almost  reverential  on  many  points, 
sprincrinorfrom  the  difference  of  sex,  tended  to  soften  her  mind,  and  make 
her  spirit  ductile  and  dependent.  He  taught  her  to  scorn  pain,  but  to 
shrink  with  excessive  timidity  from  anything  that  intrenched  on  the  barrier 
of  womanly  reserve  which  he  raised  about  her.  Nothing  was  dreaded,  in- 
deed, by  her,  except  his  disapprobation ;  and  a  word  or  look  from  him 
made  her,  with  all  her  childish  vivacity  and  thoughtlessness,  turn  as  with 
a  silken  string,  and  bend  at  once  to  his  will.  y 

There  was  an  affectionateness  of  disposition  kneaded  up  in  the  very  tex- 
ture of  her  soul,  which  gave  it  its  "  very  form  and  pressure."  It  accom- 
panied every  word  and  action  ;  it  revealed  itself  in  her  voice,  and  hung  like 
light  over  the  expression  of  her  countenance. 

Her  earliest  feeling  was  love  of  her  father.  She  would  sit  to  watch  him, 
guess  at  his  thoughts,  and  creep  close,  or  recede  away,  as  she  read  encour- 


& 


LODORE.  11 


agement,  or  the  contrary,  in  his  eyes  and  gestures.  Except  him,  her  only 
companion  was  her  servant ;  and  very  soon  she  distinguished  between  them, 
and  felt  proud  and  elate  when  she  quitted  her  for  her  father's  side.  Soon, 
she  almost  never  quitted  it.  Her  gentle  and  docile  disposition  rendered 
her  unobtrusive,  while  her  inexhaustible  spirits  were  a  source  of  delightful 
amusement  The  goodness  of  her  heart  endeared  her  still  more  ;  and  when 
it  was  called  forth  by  any  demand  made  on  it  by  him,  it  was  attended  by 
such  a  display  of  excessive  sensibility,  as  at  once  caused  him  to  tremble 
for  her  future  happiness,  and  love  her  ten  thousand  times  more.  She  grew 
into  the  image  on  which  his  eye  doted,  and  for  whose  presence  his  heart  per- 
petually yearned.  Was  he  reading,  or  otherwise  occupied  he  was  resile:  s, 
if  yet  she  were  not  in  the  room  ;  and  she  would  remain  in  silence  for  hou."s, 
occupied  by  some  little  feminine  work,  and  all  the  while  watching  him, 
catching  his  first  glance  towards  her,  and  obeying  the  expression  of  his 
countenance,  before  he  could  form  his  wish  into  words.  When  he  left  her 
for  any  of  his  longer  excursions,  her  little  heart  would  heave,  and  almost 
burst  with  sorrow.  On  his  return,  she  was  always  on  the  watch  to  see,  to 
fly  into  his  arms,  and  to  load  him  -with  infantine  caresses. 

There  was  something  in  her  face,  that  at  this  early  age  gave  token  of 
truth  and  affection,  and  asked  for  sympathy.  Her  large  brown  eyes,  such 
as  are  called  hazel,  full  of  tenderness  and  sweetness,  possessed  within  their 
depths  an  expression  and  a  latent  fire,  which  stirred  the  heart.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  describe,  or  by  words  to  call  before  another's  mind,  the  picture  so 
palpable  to  our  own.  The  moulding  of  her  cheek,  full  just  below  the  eyes, 
and  ending  in  a  soft  oval,  gave  a  peculiar  expression,  at  once  beseeching 
and  tender,  and  yet  radiant  with  vivacity  and  gladness.  Frankness  and 
truth  were  reflected  on  her  brow,  like  flowers  in  the  clearest  pool ;  the  thou- 
sand nameless  lines  and  mouldings,  which  create  expression,  were  replete 
with  beaming  innocence  and  irresistible  attraction.  Her  small  chiselled 
nose,  her  mouth  so  delicately  curved,  gave  token  of  taste.  In  the  whole 
was  harmony,  and  the  upper  part  of  the  countenance  seemed  to  reign  over 
the  lower,  and  to  ennoble  it,  making  her  usual  placid  expression  thoughtful 
and  earnest ;  so  that  not  until  she  smiled  and  spoke,  did  the  gayety  of  her 
guileless  heart  display  itself,  and  the  vivacity  of  her  disposition  give  change 
and  relief  to  the  picture.  Her  figure  was  light  and  airy,  tall  at  an  early 
age,  and  slender.  Her  rides  and  rambles  gave  elasticity  to  her  limbs,  and 
her  step  was  like  that  of  the  antelope,  springy  and  true.  She  had  no  fears, 
no  deceit,  no  untold  thought  within  her.  Her  matchless  sweetness  of  tem- 
per prevented  any  cloud  from  ever  dimming  her  pure  loveliness  :  her  voice 
cheered  the  heart,  and  her  laugh  rang  so  true  and  joyous  on  the  ear,  that  it 
gave  token  in  itself  of  the  sympathizing  and  buoyant  spirit  which  was  her 
great  charm.  Nothing  with  her  centred  in  self;  she  was  always  ready  to 
give  her  soul  away  :  to  please  her  father  was  the  unsleeping  law  of  all  her 
actions,  while  his  approbation  imparted  a  sense  of  such  pure  but  entire 
happiness,  that  every  other  feeling  faded  into  insignificance  in  the  compar- 
ison. 

In  the  first  year  of  exile  and  despair,  Fitzhenry  looked  forward  to  the 
long-drawn  succession  of  future  years,  with  an  impatience  of  wo  difficult 
to  be  borne.  He  was  surprised  to  find,  as  he  proceeded  in  the  quiet  path 
of  life  which  he  had  selected,  that  instead  of  an  increase  of  unhappiness,  a 
thousand  pleasures  smiled  around  him.  He  had  looked  on  it  as  a  bitter  task 
to  forget  that  he  had  a  name  and  country,  both  abandoned  for  ever  ;  now,  the 
thought  of  these  seldom  recurred  to  his  memory.  His  forest  home  became 
all  in  all  to  him.  Wherever  he  went,  his  child  was  by  his  side,  to  cheei 
and  enliven  him.  When  he  looked  on  her,  and  reflected  that  within  her 
frame  dwelt  spotless  innocence  and  filial  piety,  that  within  that  lovely 
"bower  of  flesh,"  not  one  thought  or  feeling  resided  that  was  not  akin  to 


If  LODORK. 

heaven  in  its  purity  and  sweetness,  he,  as  by  infection,  acquired  a  portion 
of  the  calm  enjoyment,  which  she  in  her  taintless  youth  naturally  pos- 
sessed. 

Even  when  any  distant  excursion  forced  him  to  absent  himself,  her  idea 
followed  him,  to  light  him  cheerily  on  his  way.  He  knew  that  he  should 
find  her  on  his  return  busied  in  little  preparations  for  his  welcome.  In 
summer  time,  the  bower  in  the  garden  would  be  adorned  ;  in  the  implement 
reason  of  winter,  the  logs  would  blaze  on  the  hearth,  his  chair  be  drawn 
towards  the  fire,  the  stool  for  Ethel  at  his  feet,  with  nothing  to  remind  him 
of  the  past  save  her  dear  presence,  which  drew  jts  greatest  charm,  not  from 
that,  but  from  the  present.  Fitzhenry  forgot  the  thousand  delights  of  civili- 
zation, for  which  formerly  his  heart  had  painfully  yearned.  He  forgot 
ambition,  and  the  enticements  of  gay  vanity  ;  peace  and  security  appeared 
the  greatest  blessings  of  life,  and  he  had  them  here. 

Ethel  herself  was  happy  beyond  the  knowledge  of  her  own  happiness. 
She  regretted  nothing  in  the  oid  country.  She  grew  up  among  the  grandest 
objects -of  nature,  and  they  were  the  sweet  influences  to  excite  her  to  love 
and  to  a  sense  of  pleasure.  She  had  come  to  the  Illinois  attended  by  a 
black  woman  and  her  daughter,  whom  her  father  had  engaged  to  attend 
her  at  New- York,  and  had  been  sedulously  kept  away  from  communication 
with  the  settlers  —  an  arrangement  which  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
bring  about  elsewhere;  but  in  this  secluded  and  almost  deserted  spot  the 
usual  characteristics  of  the  Americans  were  scarcely  to  be  found.  Most  of 
the  inhabitants  were  emigrants  from  Scotland  ;  a  peaceable,  hard-working 
population. 

Ethel  lived  alone  in  their  lonely  dwelling.  Had  she  been  of  a  more 
advanced  age  when  taken  from  England,  her  curiosity  might  have  been 
excited  by  the  singularity  of  her  position  ;  but  we  rarely  reason  about  that 
which  has  remained  unchanged  since  infancy;  taking  it  as  a  part  of  the 
immutable  order  of  things,  we  yield  without  a  question  to  its  control. 
Ethel  did  not  know  that  she  was  alone.  Her  attendants  she  was  attached 
to,  and  she  idolized  her  father ;  his  image  filled  all  her  little  heart.  Play- 
mate she  had  none,  save  a  fawn  and  a  kid,  a  dog  grown  old  in  her  service, 
and  a  succession  of  minor  favourites  of  the  animal  species. 

?t  was  Fitzhenry's  wish  to  educate  his  daughter  to  all  the  perfection  of 
which  the  feminine  character  is  susceptible.  As  the  first  step,  he  cut  her 
off  from  familiar  communication  with  the  unrefined,  and,  watching  over  her 
with  the  fondest  care,  kept  her  far  aloof  from  the  very  knowledge  of  what 
might,  by  its  baseness  or  folly,  contaminate  the  celestial  beauty  of  her  nature. 
He  resolved  to  make  her  all  that  woman  can  be  of  generous,  soft,  and  de- 
voted ;  to  purge  away  every  alloy  of  vanity  and  petty  passion" — to  fill  her 
with  honour,  and  yet  to  mould  her  to  the  sweetest  gentleness  :  to  cultivate 
her  tastes  and  enlarge  her  mind,  yet  so  to  control  her  acquirements  as  to 
render  her  ever  pliant  to  his  will.  She  was  to  be  lifted  above  every  idea  of 
artifice  or  guile,  or  the  caballing  spirit  of  the  worldling — she  was  to  be 
single-hearted,  yet  mild.  A  creature  half  poetry,  half  love  —  one  whose 
pure  lips  had  never  been  tainted  by  an  untruth  —  an  enthusiastic  being, 
who  could  give  her  life  away  for  the  sake  of  another,  and  yet  who  honoured 
herself  as  a  consecrated  thing  reserved  for  one  worship  alone.  She  was 
taught  that  no  misfortune  should  penetrate  her  soul,  except  such  as  visited 
her  affections,  or  her  sense  of  right ;  and  that,  set  apart  from  the  vulgar 
uses  of  the  world,  she  was  connected  with  the  mass  only  through  another  — 
that  other,  now  her  father  and  only  friend  —  hereafter,  whosoever  her  heart 
might  select  as  her  guide  and  head.  Fitzhenry  drew  his  chief  ideas  from 
Milton's  Eve,  and  adding  to  this  the  romance  of  chivalry,  he  satisfied  him- 
self that,  his  daughter  would  be  the  imbodied  ideal  of  all  that  is  adorable 
and  estimable  in  her  sex. 


LODORE.  13 

The  instructor  can  scarcely  give  sensibility  where  it  is  essentially  want- 
ing, nor  talent  to  the  unpercipient  block.  But  he  can  cultivate  and  direct 
the  affections  of  the  pupil,  who  puts  forth,  as  a  parasite,  tendrils  by  which 
to  cling,  not  knowing  to  what  —  to  a  supporter  or  a  destroyer.  The  careful 
rearer  of  the  ductile  human  plant  can  instil  his  own  religion,  and  surround 
the  soul  by  such  a  moral  atmosphere,  as  shall  become  to  its  latest  day  the 
air  it  breathes.  Ethel,  from  her  delicate  organization  and  quick  parts,  was 
sufficiently  plastic  in  her  father's  hands.  When  not  with  him,  she  was  the 
playmite  of  nature.  Her  birds  and  pet  animals  —  her  untaught  but  most 
kind  nurse,  were  her  associates  :  she  had  her  flowers  to  watch  over,  her 
music,  her  drawings,  and  her  books.  Nature,  wild,  interminable,  sublime, 
was  around  her.  The  ceaseless  flow  of  the  brawling  stream,  the  wide- 
spread forest,  the  changes  of  the  sky,  the  career  of  the  wide- winged  clouds, 
when  the  winds  drove  them  athwart  the  atmosphere,  or  the  repose  of  the 
still  and  stirless  summer  air,  the  stormy  war  of  the  elements,  and  the  sense 
of  trust  and  security  amidst  their  loudest  disturbances,  were  all  circum- 
stances to  mould  her  even  unconsciously  to  an  admiration  of  all  that  is  <*rand 
and  beautiful. 

A  lofty  sense  of  independence,  is,  in  man,  the  best  privilege  of  his  nature, 
It  cannot  be  doubted,  but  that  it  were  for  the  happiness  of  the  other  sex 
that  she  were  taught  more  to  rely  on  and  act  for  herself.  But  in  the  cul- 
tivation of  this  feeling,  the  education  of  Fitzhenry  was  lamentably  deficient. 
Ethel  was  taught  to  know  herself  dependent;  the  support  of  another  was 
to  be  as  necessary  to  her  as  her  daily  fuod.  She  leaned  on  her  father  as  a 
prop  that  could  not  fail,  and  she  was  wholly  satisfied  with  her  condition. 
Her  peculiar  disposition  of  course  tinged  Fitzhenry's  theories  with  colours 
not  always  their  own,  and  her  entire  want  of  experience  in  intercourse 
with  her  fellow-creatures  gave  a  more  decided  tone  to  her  sense  of  depend- 
ence than  she  could  have  acquired,  if  the  circumstances  of  her  daily  life 
had  brought  her  into  perpetual  collision  Avith  others.  She  was  habitually 
cheerful  even  to  gayety  ;  yet  her  character  was  not  devoid  of  petulance, 
which  might  become  rashness  or  self-will  if  left  to  herself.  She  had  a 
clear  and  upright  spirit,  and  suspicion  or  unkindness  roused  her  to  indigna- 
tion, or  sunk  her  into  the  depths  of  sorrow.  Place  her  in  danger,  and  tell 
her  she  must  encounter  it,  and  she  called  up  all  her  courage  and  be.came  a 
heroine  ;  but  on  less  occasions,  difficulties  dismayed  and  annoyed  her,  and 
she  longed  to  escape  from  them  into  that  dreamy  existence,  for  which  her 
solitary  mode  of  life  had  given  her  a  taste  :  active  in  person,  in  mind  she 
was  too  often  indolent,  and  apt  to  think  that  while  she  was  docile  to  the  in- 
junctions of  her  parent,  ?11  her  duties  were  fulfilled.  She  seldom  thought, 
and  never  acted,  for  herself. 

With  all  this  she  was  so  caressingly  affectionate,  so  cheerful  and  obedient, 
that  she  inspired  her  father  with  more  than  a  father's  fondness.  He  lived 
but  for  her  and  in  her.  Away,  she  was  present  to  his  imagination,  the 
loadstone  to  draw  him  home,  and  to  fill  that  home  with  pleasure.  He  ex- 
alted her  in  his  fancy  into  angelic  perfection,  and  nothing  occurred  to  blot 
the  fair  idea.  He  in  prospect  gave  up  his  whole  life  to  the  warding  off 
every  evil  from  her  dear  and  sacred  head.  He  knew,  or  rather  believed, 
that  while  we  possess  one  real,  devoted,  and  perfect  friend,  we  cannot  be 
truly  miserable.  He  said  to  himself — though  he  did  not  love  to  dwell  on 
the  thought  —  that  of  course  cares  and  afflictions  might  hereafter  befall  her ; 
but  he  was  to  stand  the  shield  to  blunt  the  arrows  of  sorrow  —  the  shelter 
in  which  she  might  find  refuse  from  every  evil  ministration.  The  worst 
ills  of  life,  penury  and  desertion,  she  could  never  know  ;  and  surely  he, 
who  would  stand  so  fast  by  her  through  all — whose  nightly  dream  and 
waking  thought  was  for  her  good,  'would  even,  when  led  to  form  other  con- 

32—2 


14  LODORE. 

nexions  in  life,  so  command  her  affections,  as  to  be  able  to  influence  her 
happiness. 

Not  being  able  to  judge  by  comparison,  Ethel  was  unaware  of  the  pecu- 
liarity of  her  good  fortune  in  possessing  such  a  father.  But  she  loved  him 
entirely  ;  looked  up  to  him,  and  saw  in  him  the  reward  of  every  exertion, 
the  object  of  each  day's  employment.  In  early  youth  we  have  no  true 
notion  of  what  the  realities  of  life  are  formed,  and  when  we  look  forward,  it 
is  without  any  correct  estimate  of  the  chances  of  existence.  Ethel's  vision- 
ary ideas  were  all  full  of  peace,  seclusion,  and  her  father.  America,  or 
rather  the  little  village  of  the  Illinois  which  she  inhabited,  was  all  the  world 
to  her  ;  and  she  had  no  idea  that  nearly  every  thing  that  connected  her  to 
society  existed  beyond  the  far  Atlantic,  in  that  tiny  isle  which  made  so 
small  a  show  upon  her  maps.  Fitzhenry  never  mentioned  these  things  to 
his  daughter.  She  arrived  at  the  age  of  fifteen  without  forming  a  hope  that 
should  lead  her  beyond  the  pale  which  had  hitherto  enclosed  her,  or  having 
imagined  that  any  train  of  circumstances  might  suddenly  transplant  her 
from  the  lonely  wilderness  to  the  thronged  resorts  of  mankind. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Les  deserts  sont  faits  pour  les  amants,  mais  1'amour  ne  se  fait  pas  aux  deser'g. 

Lk  Bjrejer  de  Pakis. 

Twelve  years  had  led  Ethel  from  infancy  to  childhood  ;  and  from  child's 
estate  to  the  blooming  season  of  girlhood.  It  had  brought  her  father  from 
the  prir^e  of  a  man's  life,  to  the  period  when  it  began  to  decline.  Our  feel- 
ings probably  are  not  less  strong  at  fifty  than  they  were  ten  or  fifteen  years 
before ;  but  they  have  changed  their  objects,  and  dwell  on  far  different 
prospects.  At  five-and-thirty  a  man  thinks  of  what  his  own  existence  is ; 
when  the  maturity  of  age  has  grown  into  its  autumn,  he  is  wrapped  up  in  that 
of  others.  The  loss  of  wife  or  child  then  becomes  more  deplorable,  as  being 
impossible  to  repair ;  for  no  fresh  connexion  can  give  us  back  the  com- 
panion of  our  earlier  years,  nor  a  "new-sprung  race"  compensate  for  that, 
whose  career  we  hoped  to  see  run.  Fitzhenry  had  been  a  man  of  violent 
passions  ;  they  had  visited  his  life  with  hurricane  and  desolation  ;  —  were 
these  dead  within  him?  The  complacency  that  now  distinguished  his 
physiognomy  seemed  to  vouch  for  internal  peace.  But  there  was  an  ab- 
stracted melancholy  in  his  dark  eyes  —  a  look  that  went  beyond  the  objects 
immediately  before  him,  that  seemed  to  say  that  he  often  anxiously  ques- 
tioned fate,  and  meditated  with  roused  fears  on  the  secrets  of  futurity. 

Educating  his  child,  and  various  other  employments,  had  occupied  and 
diverted  him.  He  had  been  content ;  he  asked  for  no  change,  but  he 
dreaded  it.  Often  when  packets  arrived  from  England,  he  hesitated  to  open 
them.  He  could  not  account  for  his  new-born  anxieties.  Was  change 
approaching  ?  "  How  long  will  you  be  at  peace  ?"  Such  warning  voice 
startled  him  in  the  solitude  of  the  forests  :  he  looked  round,  but  no  human 
being  was  near,  yet  the  voice  had  spoken  audibly  to  his  sense  ;  and  when 
a  transient  air  swept  the  dead  leaves  near,  he  shrunk  as  if  a  spirit  passed, 
invisible  to  sight,  and  yet  felt  by  the  subtle  atmosphere,  as  it  gave  articula- 
tion and  motion  to  it. 

"  How  long  shall  I  be  at  peace  ?"  A  thrill  ran  through  his  veins.  "  Am 
I  then  now  at  peace  ?  Do  love,  and  hate,  and  despair,  no  longer  wage  their 
accustomed  war  in  my  heart  ?  and  is  it  true,  that  gently  flowing  as  my  days 
have  lately  been,  that  during  their  course  I  have  not  felt  those  mortafthioes 


LODORE.  15 

that  once  made  life  so  intolerable  a  burden  ?  It  is  so.  ,1  am  at  peace; 
strange  state  for  suffering  mortality  !  And  this  is  not  to  last  ?  My  daugh- 
ter !  there  only  am  I  vulnerable  5  yet  have  1  surrounded  her  with  a  seven- 
fold shield.  My  own  sweet  Ethel !  how  can  I  avert  from  your  dear  head 
the  dark  approaching  storm  ? 

"But  this  is  folly.  These  waking  dreams  are  the  curse  of  inaction  a*»d 
so'itude.  Yesterday  I  refused  to  accompany  the  exploring  party.  I  will 
go  —  I  am  not  old;  fatigue,  as  yet,  does  not  seem  a  burden  ;  but  I  shall 
sink  into  premature  age,  iff  allow  this  indolence  to  overpower  me.  I  will 
set  out  on  this  expedition,  and  thus  I  shall  no  longer  be  at  peace."  Fitz- 
henry  smiled,  as  if  thus  he  were  cheating  destiny. 

The  proposed  journey  was  one  to  be  made  by  a  party  of  his  fellow-set- 
tlers, to  trace  the  route  between  their  town  and  a  large  one,  two  hundred 
miles  off,  to  discover  the  best  mode  of  communication.  There  was  nothing 
very  arduous  in  the  undertaking.  It  was  September,  and  hunting  would 
diversify  the  tediousness  of  their  wray.  Fitzhenry  left  his  daughter  under 
the  charge  of  her  attendants,  to  amuse  herself  with  her  books,  her  music, 
her  gardening,  her  needle,  and,  more  than  all,  her  new  and  very  favourite 
study  of  drawing  and  sketching.  Hitherto  the  pencil  had  scarcely  been 
one  of  her  occupations  ;  but  an  accident  gave  scope  to  her  acquiring  in  h 
that  improvement  for  which  she  found  that  she  had  prodigious  inclination, 
and,  she  was  assured,  no  inconsiderable  talent. 

The  occasion  that  had  given  rise  to  this  new  employment  was  this, 
Three  or  four  months  before,  a  trajKller  arrived  for  the  purpose  of  settling", 
who  claimed  a  rather  higher  intellectual  rank  than  those  around  him.  He 
was  the  son  of  an  honest  tradesman  of  the  city  of  London.  He  disj  layed 
early  signs  of  talent,  and  parental  fondness  gave  him  opportunities  of  cul- 
tivating it.  The  means  of  his  family  were  small,  but  some  of  the  boy's 
drawings  having  attracted  the  attention  of  an  artist,  he  entered  upon  the 
profession  of  a  painter,  with  sanguine  hopes  of  becoming  hereafter  an  orna- 
ment to  it. 

Two  obstacles  were  in  the  way  of  his  success.  He  wanted  that  intense 
love  of  his  art  —  that  enthusiastic  perseverance  in  labour,  which  distin- 
guishes the  man  cf  genius  from  the  man  of  talent  merely.  He  regarded  it 
as  a  means,  hot  an  end.  Probably  therefore  he  did  not  feel  that  capacity 
in  himself  for  attaining  first-rate  excellence,  which  had  been  attributed  to 
him.  He  had  a  taste  also  for  social  pleasures  and  vulgar  indulgences, 
incompatible  with  industry  and  with  that  refinement  of  mind  which  is  so 
necessary  an  adjunct  to  the  cultivation  of  the  imaginative  arts.  Whitelock 
had  none  of  all  this  ;  but  he  was  quick,  clever,  and  was  looked  on  among 
his  associates  as  a  spirited,  agreeable  fellow.  The  death  of  his  parents  left 
him  in  possession  of  their  little  wealth :  depending  for  the  future  on  the 
resources  which  his  talent  promised  him,  he  dissipated  the  two  or  three 
hundred  pounds  which  formed  his  inheritance  :  debt,  difficulties,  with  con- 
sequent abstraction  from  his  profession,  completed  his  ruin.  He  arri  ed 
at  the  Illinois  in  search  of  an  uncle,  on  whose  kindness  he  intended  to  de- 
pend, with  six  dollars  in  his  purse.  His  uncle  had  long  before  disappeared 
from  that  part  of  the  country.  "Whitelock  found  himself  destitute.  Nei- 
ther his  person,  which  was  diminutive,  nor  his  constitution,  which  was  deli- 
cate, fitted  him  for  manual  labour  ;  nor  was  he  acquainted  with  any  me- 
chanic art.  What  could  he  do  in  America  ?  He  began  to  feel  very  deeply 
the  inroads  of  despair,  when  hearing  of  the  superior  wealth  of  Mr.  Fitz- 
henry, and  that  he  was  an  Englishman,  he  paid  him  a  visit,  feeling  secure 
that  he  could  interest  him  in  his  favour. 

The  emigrant's  calculations  were  just.  His  distinguished  countryman 
exerted  himself  to  enable  the  young  man  to  obtain  a  subsistence.  He  es- 
tablished him  in  a  school,  and  gave  him  his  best  counsels  how  to  proceed. 


16  JLODORF.. 

Whitelock  thanked  him  ;  commenced  the  most  odious  task  of  initiating  the 
young  Americans  in  the  rudiments  of  knowledge,  and  sought  meanwhile  to 
amuse  himself  to  the  best  of  his  power.  Fitzhen.y's  house  he  first  made 
his  resort.  He  was  not  to  be  baffled  by  the  reserved  courtesy  of  his  host. 
The  comfort  and  English  appearance  of  the  exile's  dwelling  were  charming 
to  him  ;  and  while  he  could  hear  himself  talk,  he  fancied  that  every  one 
about  h  m  must  be  satisfied.  Fitzhenry  was  excessively  annoyed.  There 
was  an  innate  vulgarity  in  his  visitant,  and  an  unlicensed  familiarity,  that 
jarred  painfully  with  the  refined  habits  of  his  sensitive  nature,  fclill,  in  this 
wilderness  he  had  been  forced  to  tolerate  even  worse  than  this,  and  he  bore 
Whitelock's  intrusions  as  well  as  he  could,  seeking  only  to  put  such  obsta- 
cles in  the  way  of  his  too  frequent  visits,  as  would  best  serve  to  curtail  them. 
Whitelock's  chief  merit  was  his  talent ;  he  had  a  real  eye  for  the  outward 
forms  of  nature,  for  the  tints  in  which  she  loves  to  robe  herself,  and  the 
beauty  in  which  she  is  for  ever  invested.  He  occupied  himself  by  sketching 
the  surrounding  scenery,  and  gave  life  and  interest  to  many  a  savage  glade 
and  solitary  nook,  which,  till  he  came,  had  not  been  discovered  to  be  pictu- 
resque. Ethel  regarded  his  drawings  with  wonder  and  delight,  and  easily 
obtained  permission  from  her  father  to  take  lessons  in  the  captivating  art. 
Fitzhenry  thought,  that  of  all  occupations,  that  of  the  pencil,  if  pursued  ear- 
nestly and  with  real  taste,  most  conduced  to  the  student's  happiness.  Its 
scope  is  net  personal  display,  as  is  the  case  most  usually  with  music,  and 
yet  it  has  a  visible  result,  which  satisfies  the  mind  that  something  has  been 
done.  It  does  not  fatigue  the  attentic^yike  the  study  of  languages,  yet  it 
suffices  to  call  forth  the  powers,  and  to  fill  the  mind  with  pleasurable  sen- 
sations?. It  is  a  most  feminine  occupation,  well  replacing,  on  a  more  liberal 
and  rational  scale,  the  tapestry  of  our  grandmothers.  Ethel  had  already 
shown  a  great  inclination  for  design,  and  her  father  was  glad  of  so  favour- 
able an  opportunity  for  cultivating  it.  A  few  difficulties  presented  them- 
selves. Whitelock  had  brought  his  own  materials  with  him,  but  he  pos- 
sessed no  superfluity  —  and  they  were  not  to  be  procured  at  the  settlement. 
The  artist  offered  to  transfer  them  all  for  Ethel's  convenience  to  her  own 
abode,  so  that  he  might  have  free  leave  to  occupy  himself  there  also.  Fitz- 
henry saw  all  the  annoyances  consequent  on  this  plan,  and  it  was  finally 
arranged  that  his  daughter  should,  three  or  four  times  a  week,- visit  the 
school  house,  and  in  a  little  room,  built  apart  for  her  especial  use,  pursue 
her  study. 

The  habit  of  seeing  and  instructing  his  lovely  pupil  awoke  new  ideas  in 
Whitelock's  fruitful  brain.  Who  was  Mr.  Fitzhenry?  What  did  he  in  the 
Illinois?  Whitelock  sounded  him  carefully,  but  gathered  no  information, 
except  that  this  gentleman  showed  no  intention  of  ever  quitting  the  settle- 
ment. But  this  was  much  !  He  was  evidently  in  easy  circumstances  — 
Ethel  was  his  only  child.  She  was  here  a  garden- rose  amidst,  briars,  and 
Whitelock  flattered  himself  that  his  position  was  not  materially  different. 
Could  he  succeed  in  the  scheme  that  all  these  considerations  suggested  to 
him,  his  fortune  was  made,  or,  at  least,  he  should  bid  adieu  for  ever  to 
blockhead  boys  and  the  dull  labours  of  instruction. 

As  these  views  opened  upon  him,  he  took  more  pains  to  ingratiate  him 
self  with  Fitzhenry.  He  became  humble  ;  he  respectfully  sought  his  ad- 
vice —  and  while  he  contrived  a  thousand  modes  of  throwing  himself  in  his 
way,  he  appeared  less  intrusive  than  before  —  and  yet  he  felt  that  he  did 
not  get  on.  Fitzhenry  was  kind  to  him,  as  a  countryman  in  need  of  assist- 
ance ;  he  admired  his  talent  as  an  artist,  but  he  shrunk  from  the  smallest 
approach  to  intimacy.  Whitelock  hoped  that  he  was  only  shy,  but  he 
feared  that  he  was  proud  ;  he  tried  to  break  through  the  banier  of  reserve 
opposed  to  him,  and  he  became  a  considerable  annoyance  to  the  recluse. 
He  waylaid  him  during  his  walks  with  his  daughter  —  forced  his  company 


LODORE.  it 

uponthem,  and  forging  a  thousand  obliging  excuses  for  entering  their  dwell- 
ing, he  destroyed  the  charm  of  their  quiet  evenings,  and  yet  tempered  his 
manners  with  such  shows  of  humility  and  gratitude  as  Fitzhenry  could  not 
resist. 

Whiteloek  next  tried  his  battery  on  the  young  lady  herself.  Her  passion 
for  her  new  acquirement  afforded  scope  for  his  enterprising  disposition. 
She  was  rpal'v  glad  to  see  him  whenever  he  came  ;  questioned  him  about  tht, 
pictures  which  existed  in  the*  old  world,  and,  with  a  mixture  of  wonder  and 
cariosity,  began  to  think  that  there  was  magic  in  an  art,  that  produced. the 
effects  which  he  described.  Wi'.h  all  the  enthusiasm  of  youth,  she  tried 
to  improve  herself,  and  the  alacriry  with  which  she  welcomed  her  master, 
or  hurried  to  his  school,  looked  almost  like  —  Whiteloek  could  not  exactly 
tell  what,  but  here  was  ground  to  work  upon. 

When  Fitzhenry  went  on  the  expedition  already  mentioned,  Ethel  gave 
up  all  her  time,  with  renewed  ardour,  to  her  favounte  pursuit.  Early  in  the 
morning  she  was  seen  tripping  down  to  the  school-house,  accompanied  by 
her  taithful  negro  woman.  The  attendant  used  her  distaff  and  spindle, 
Ethel  her  brush,  and  the  hours  flew  unheeded.  Whiteloek  would  have 
been  glad  that  her  eyes  had  not  always  been  so  intently  fixed  on  the  paper 
before  her.  He  proposed  sketching  f/om  nature.  They  made  studies  Horn 
ir^es,  and  contemplated  the  changing  hues  of  earth  and  sky  together. 
While  talking  of  tints,  and  tones  of  colour  spread  over  the  celestial  hemis- 
phere and  the  earth  beneath,  were  it  not  en  easy  transition  to  speak  of  those 
which  glistened  in  a  lady's  eye,  or  warmed  her  cheek  ?  In  the  solitude  of 
his  chamber,  thus  our  adventurer  reasoned  ;  and  wondered  each  night  why 
he  hesitated  to  begin.  Whiteloek  was  short  and  ill-made,  His  face  was 
not  of  an  agj^eable  cast ;  it  was  impossible  to  see  him  without  being  im- 
pressed with  the  idea  that  he  was  a  man  of  talent ;  but  he  was  otherwise 
decidedlv  ugly.  This  disadvantage  was  counterbalanced  by  an  overween- 
ing vanity,  which  is  often  to  be  remarked  in  those  whose  personal  defects 
place  them  a  step  below  their  fellows.  He  knew  the  value  of  an  appear- 
ance of  devotion,  and  the  power  which  an  acknowledgment  of  entire  thral- 
dom exercises  over  the  feminine  imagination.  He  had  succeeded  ill  with 
the  father  ;  b'lt,  after  all,  the  surest  way  was  to  captivate  the  daughter  iJ 
the  affection  of  her  parent  would  induce  him  to  ratify  any  step  necessary 
to  her  happiness  :  and  the  chanee  afforded  by  this  parent's  absence  for  put- 
tin  ;  his  plan  into  execution,  might  never  again  occur  —  why  then  delay  ? 

Tt  was,  perhaps,  st  an ge  that  Fitzhenry,  alive  to  the  smallest  evil  that 
might  approach  his  darting  child,  and  devoted  to  her  sole  guardian  ship, 
should  have  been  blind  to  the  sort  of  danger  which  she  ran  during  his  ab- 
sence. But  the  paternal  protection  is  never  entirely  efficient.  A  father 
avenges  an  insult;  but  he  has  seldom  watchfulness  enough  to  prevent  it 
In  the  present  instance,  the  extreme  youth  of  Ethel  might  well  serve  as  an 
excuse.  She  was  scarcely  fifteen ;  and,  light-hearted  and  blithe,  none  but 
childish  ideas  had  found  place  in  her  unruffled  mind.  Her  father  yet 
regarded  her  as  he  had  done  when  she  was  wont  to  climb  his  knee,  or  to 
gambol  before  him  :  he  still  looked  forward  to  her  womanhood  as  to  a  dis- 
tant event,  which  would  necessitate  an  entire  change  in  his  mode  of  living, 
but  which  need  not  for  several  years  enter  into  his  calculations.  Thus, 
when  he  departed,  he  felt  glad  to  get  rid,  for  a  time,  of  Whitelock's  disa- 
greeable society  ;  but  it  never  crossed  his  imagination  that  his  angelic  girl 
could  be  annoyed  or  injured,  meanwhile,  by  the  presumptuous  advances  of 
a  man  whom  he  despised. 

Eth°l  knew  nothing  of  the  language  of  love.     She  had  read  of  it  in  her 
favounte  poets  ;  but  she  was  yet  too  young  and  guileless  to  apply  any  of 
its  feelings  to  herself.     Love  had  alvvavs  appeared  to  her  blended  with  tha 
2* 


13  LODORE. 

highest  imaginative  beauty  and  heroism,  and  thus  was.  in  her  eyes,  at  once 
awful  and  lovely.  Nothing  had  vulgarized  it  to  her.  The  greatest  men 
were  its  slaves,  and  according  as  their  choice  fell  on  the  worthy  or  un- 
worthy, they  were  elevated  or  disgraced  by  passion.  It  was  the  part  of  a 
woman  so  to  refine  and  educate  her  mind,  as  to  be  the  cause  of  good  alone 
to  him  whose  fate  depended  on  her  smile.  There  was  something  of  the 
Orondates'  vein  in  her  ideas  ;  but  they  were  too  vague  and  general  to  in- 
fluence her  actions.  Brought  up  in  American  solitude,  with  all  the  refine- 
msnf  attendant  on  European  society,  she  was  aristocratic,  both  as  regarded 
rank  and  sex  ;  but  all  these  were  as  yet  undeveloped  feelings  —  seeds  plant- 
ed by  the  careful  paternal  hand,  not  yet  called  into  life  or  growth. 

Whitelock  began  his  operations,  and  was  obliged  to  be  explicit  to  be  at 
all  understood.  He  spoke  of  misery  and  despair  ;  he  urged  no  plea,  sought 
no  favour,  ex<"£pt  to  be  allowed  to  speak  of  his  wretchedness.  Ethel  lis- 
tened —  Eve  listened  to  the  serpent,  and  since  then  her  daughters  have  been 
accused  of  an  aptitude  to  give  par  to  forbidden  discourse.  He  spoke  well, 
too,  for  he  was  a  man  of  unquestioned  talent.  It  is  a  strange  feeling  for  a 
girl,  when  first  she  finds  the  power  put  into  her  hand  of  influencing  the  des- 
tiny of  another  to  happiness  or  misery.  She  is  like  a  magician  holding  for 
the  first  time  a  fairy  wand,  not  having  yet  had  experience  of  its  potency. 
Ethel  had  read  of  the  power  of  love  ;  but  a  doubt  had  often  suggested  itself, 
of  how  far  she  herself  should  hereafter  exercise  the  influence  which  is  the 
attribute  of  her  sex.  Whitelock  dispelled  that  doubt.  He  impressed  on  her 
mind  the  idea  that  he  lived  or  died  through  her  fiat. 

For  one  instant  vanity  awoke  in  her  young  heart ;  and  she  tripped  back 
to  her  home  with  a  smile  of  triumph  on  her  lips.  The  feeling  was  short- 
lived. She  entered  her  father's  library  ;  and  his  image  appeared  to  rise  be- 
fore her,  to  regulate  and  purify  her  thoughts.  If  he  had  beeh  there,  what 
could  she  have  said  to  him  —  she  who  never  concealed  a  thought?  —  or 
how  would  he  have  received  the  information  she  had  to  give  ?  What  had 
happened,  had  not  been  the  work  of  a  day  ;  Whitelock  had  for  a  week  or 
two  proceeded  in  an  occult  and  mysterious  manner  :  but  this  day  he  had 
■withdrawn  the  veil ;  and  she  understood  much  that  had  appeared  strange  in 
him  before.  The  dark,  expressive  eyes  of  her  father  she  fancied  to  be  be- 
fore her,  penetrating  the  depths  of  her  soul,  discovering  her  frivolity,  and 
censuring  her  lowly  vanity  •;  and  even  though  alone,  she  felt  abashed.  Our 
faults  are  apt  to  assume  giant  and  exaggerated  forms  to  our  eyes  in  youth, 
and  Ethel  felt  degraded  and  humiliated  ;  and  remorse  sprung  up  in  her  gen- 
tle h'^art,  substituting  itself  for  the  former  pleasurable  emotion. 

The  young  are  always  in  extremes.  Ethel  put  away  her  drawings  and 
paintings.  She  secluded  herself  in  her  home  ;  and  arranged  so  well,  that 
notwithstanding;  the  freedom  of  American  manners,  Whitelock  contrived 
to  catch  but  a  distant,  glimpse  of  her  during  the  one  other  week  that  inter- 
vened before  her  fathers  return.  Troubled  at  this  behaviour,  he  felt  his 
bravery  ooze  out.  To  have  offended  Fitzhenry  was  an  unwise  proceed 
ing,  at  best;  but  when  he  remembered  the  haughty  and  reserved  demean- 
our of  the  man,  he  recoiled,  trembling,  from  the  prospect  of  encountering 
him. 

Ethel  was  very  concise  in  the  expressions  she  used,  to  make  her  father, 
on  his  return,  understand  what  had  happened  during  his  absence.  Fitz- 
henry heard  her  with  indignation  and  bitter  self-reproach.  The  natural  im- 
petuosity of  his  disposition  returned  on  him,  like  a  stream  which  had  been 
checked  in  its  progress,  but  which  had  gathered  strength  from  the  delay. 
On  a  sudden,  the  future,  with  all  its  difficulties  and  trials,  presented  itself 
to  his  eyes  ;  and  he  was  determined  to  go  out  to  meet  them,  rather  than  to 
await  their  advent  in  his  seclusion.  His  resolution  formed,  and  he  put  it 
into  immediate  execution :  he  would  instantly  quit  the  Illinois.     The  world 


LODORE.  19 

was  befbre  him  ;  and  while  he  paused  on  the  western  shores  of  the  Atlan- 
tic, he  could  decide  upon  his  future  path.  But  he  -would  not  remain  where 
he  was  another  season.  The  present,  the  calm,  placid  present,  had  fled 
like  morning  mist  before  the  newr-risea  breeze:  all  appeared  dark  and  tur- 
bid to  his  heated  imagination.  Change  alone  could  appease  the  sense  of 
danger  that  had  risen  within  him.  Change  of  place,  of  circumstances, — 
of  all  that  for  the  last  twelve  years  had  formed  his  life.  "  How  long  am  I 
to  rcfiain  at  peace?"  —  the  prophetic  voice  heard  in  the  silence  cf  the  for- 
ests, recurred  to  his  memory,  and  thrilled  through  his  frame.  "Peace! 
was  I  ever  at  peace  ?  Was  this  unquiet  heart  ever  still,  as,  one  by  one, 
the  troubled  thoughts  which  are  its  essence,  have  risen  and  broken  against 
the  barriers  that  embank  them  ?  Peace  !  My  own  Ethel !  —  all  I  have 
done  —  all  I  would  do  —  is  to  gift  thee  with  that  blessing  which  has  for 
ever  fled  the  thirsting  lips  of  thy  unhappy  parent."  And  thus,  gov- 
erned by  a  fevered  fancy  and  untamed  passions,  Fitzhenry  forgot  the  tran- 
quil lot  waich  he  had  learned  to  value  and  enjoy;  and  quitting  the  haven 
he  had  sought,  as  if  it  had  never  been  a  place  of  shelter  to  him,  unthank- 
ful for  the  many  happy  hours  which  had  blessed  him  there,  he  hastened  to 
reach  the  stormier  seas  of  life,  whose  breakers  and  whose  winds  were  ready 
to  visit  him  with  shipwreck  and  destruction. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  The  boy  is  father  of  the  man.'' 

Wordsworth. 

Fitzhenry  having  formed  his  resolution,  acted  upon  it  immediately ; 
and  yet,  while  hastening  every  preparation  for  his  departure,  he  felt  return 
upo'i  him  that  inquietude  and  intolerable  sense  of  suffering,  which  of  late 
years  had  subsided  in  his  soul.  Now  and  then  it  struck  him  as  madness 
to  quit  his  house,  his  garden,  the  trees  of  his  planting,  the  quiet  abode  which 
he  had  reared  hi  the  wilderness.  He  gave  his  orders,  but  he  was  unable 
to  command  himself  to  attend  to  any  of  the  minutiae  of  circumstance  con- 
nected with  his  removal.  As  when  he  first  arrived,  again  he  sought  relief 
in  exercise  and  the  open  air.  He  felt  each  ministration  of  nature  to  be  his 
friend,  and  man  in  everv  guise,  to  be  his  enemy.  He  was  about  to  plunge 
among  them  again.     What  would  be  the  result  ? 

Yet  this  was  no  abode  for  the  opening  bloom  of  Ethel.  For  her  good 
bis  beloved  and  safe  seclusion  must  be  sacrificed,  and  that  he  was  acting 
lor  her  benefit,  and  not  his  own,  served  to  calm  his  mind.    She  contem- 

f)lated  their  migration  with  something  akin  to  joy.  We  could  almost  be- 
ieve  that  we  are  destined  by  Providence  to  an  unsettled  position  on  the 
globe,  so  invariably  is  a  love  of  change  implanted  in  the  young.  It  seems 
as  if  the  eternal  Lawgiver  intended  that,  at  a  certain  age,  man  should 
leave  father,  mother,  and  the  dwelling  of  his  infancy,  to  seek  his  fortunes 
over  the  wide  world.  A  few  natural  tears  Ethel  shed — they  were  not 
many.  She,  usually  so  resigned  and  quiet  in  her  feelings,  was  now  in  a 
state  of  excitement :  dreamy,  shadowy  visions  floated  before  her  of  what 
would  resu'tf-om  her  journey,  and  curiosity  and  hope  gave  life  and  a  bright 
colouring  to  the  prospect. 

The  day  came  at  last.  On  the  previous  Sunday  she  had  knelt  for  the 
last  time  in  church  on  the  little  hassock  which  had  been  hers  from  infancy, 
and  walked  along  the  accustomed  pathway  towards  her  home  for  the  last 
time.     During  the  afternoon,  she  visited  the  village  to  bid  adieu  to  her  few 


20  LODORE. 

acquaintances.  The  sensitive  refinement  of  Fitzhenry  had  caused  him  to 
guard  his  daughter  jealously  from  familiar  intercourse  with  their  feiiow 
settlers,  even  as  a  child.  But  she  had  been  accustomed  to  enter  the  poorer 
cottages,  to  assist  the  distressed,  and  now  and  then  to  paitake  of  tea  drink- 
ing with  the  minister.  This  personage,  however,  was  not  stationary.  At 
one  time  they  had  had  a  venerable  old  man,  whom  Ethel  had  begun  to 
love  ;  but  latterly,  the  pastor  had  not  been  a  person  to  engage  her  liking, 
and  this  had  loosened  her  onfy  tie  with  her  fellow  colonists. 

The  day  came.  The  father  and  daughter,  with  three  attendants,  en- 
tered their  carriage,  and  wound  along  the  scarcely  formed  road.  One  by  one 
they  passed,  and  lost  sight  of  objects,  that  for  many  years  had  been  woven 
in  with  the  texture  of  their  lives.  Fitzhenry  was  sad.  Ethel  wept,  uncon- 
strainedly,  plentiful  showery  tears,  which  cost  so  much  less  to  the  heart, 
than  the  few  sorrowful  drops  which,  in  after  life,  we  expend  upon  our 
woes.  Still  as  they  proceeded  the  objects  that  met  their  eyes  became  less 
familiar  and  less  endeared.  They  began  to  converse,  and  when  they 
arrived  at  their  lodging  for  the  night,  Ethel  was  cheerful,  and  her  father, 
mastering  the  unquiet  feelings  which  disturbed  him,  exerted  himself  to 
converse  with  her  on  such  topics  as  would  serve  to  introduce  her  most 
pleasantly  to  the  new  scenes  which  she  was  about  to  visit. 

There  was  one  object,  however,  which  lay  nearest  to  the  emigrant's 
heart,  to  which  he  had  not  yet  acquired  courage  to  allude ;  his  own  posi- 
tion in  the  world,  his  former  fortunes,  and  the  circumstances  that  had  driven 
him  from  Europe,  to  seek  peace  and  obscurity  in  the  wilderness.  It  was  a 
strange  tale ;  replete  with  such  incidents  as  could  scarcely  be  made  intelli- 
gible to  the  nursling  of  solitude  —  one  difficult  for  a  father  to  disclose  to  his 
daughter;  involving  besides  a  consideration  of  his  future  conduct,  to  which 
he  did  not  desire  to  make  her  a  party.  Thus  they  talked  of  the  cities  they 
might  see,  and  the  strange  sights  she  would  behold,  and  but  once  did  her 
father  refer  to  their  own  position.  After  a  long  silence,  on  his  part  sombre 
and  abstracted  —  as  Prospero  asked  the  ever  sweet  Miranda,  so  did  Fitz- 
henry inquire  of  his  daughter,  if  she  had  memory  of  aught  preceding  their 
residence  in  the  Illinois  ?  And  Ethel,  as  readily  as  Miranda,  replied  in  the 
affirmative. 

"And  what,  my  love,  do  you  remember?  Gold-laced  liveries  and  spa- 
cious apartments?" 

Etheled  shook  her  head.  "  It  may  be  the  memory  of  a  dream  that  haun  ts 
me,"  she  replied,  "and  not  a  reality;  but  I  have  frequently  the  image 
before  me,  of  having  been  kissed  and  caressed  by.  a  beautiful  lady,  very 
richly  dressed." 

Fitzhenry  actually  started  at  this  reply.  "  I  have  often  conjectured," 
continued  Ethel,  "  that  that  lovely  vision  was  my  dear  mother;  and  lhat 
when  —  when  you  lost  her,  you  despised  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  exiled 
yourself  to  America." 

Ethel  looked  inquiringly  a*  ner  father  as  she  made  this  leading  remark; 
but  he  in  a  sharp-and  tremVxOus  accept  repeated  the  words,  "  Lost  her  !" 

"Yes,"  said  Ethel,  "  I  'jean,  is  she  not  lost —  did  she  not  die  ?" 

Fitzhenry  sij>hed  heav\y,  and  turning  his  head  towards  the  window  bv  his 
side,  became  absorbed  m  thought,  and  Ethel  feared  to  disturb  him  by  con- 
tinuing the  conversat' jn. 

It  has  not  been  d'.ricult  all  along  for  the  reader  to  imagine,  that  the  la- 
mented brother  of  .he  honourable  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry  and  the  exile 
of  the  Illinois  ar  one  ;  and  while  father  and  daughter  are  proceeding  on 
their  way  towarJs  New- York,  it  will  be  necessary,  for  the  interpretation  of 
the  ensuing  pages,  to  dilate  somewhat  on  the  previous  history  of  the  father 
of  our  lovely  heroine. 

It  may  be  remembered,  that  Henrv  Fitzhenry  was  the  only  son  of  Admi- 


LODORE.  21 

ra\  Lord  Lodore.  He  was,  from  infancy,  the  pride  of  his  father  and  the 
idol  of  his  sister ;  and  the  lives  of  both  were  devoted  to  exertions  for  his 
happiness  and  well-being.  The  boy  soon  became  aware  of  their  extrava- 
gant fondness,  and  could  not  do  less  in  consequence  than  fancy  him- 
self a  person  of  considerable  importance.  The  distinction  that  Lord 
Lodore  s  title  and  residence  bestowed  upon  Longfield  made  his  son  and  heir 
a  demigod  among  the  villagers.  As  he  rode  through  it  on  his  pony,  every 
one  smiled  on  him  and  bowed  to  him ;  and  the  habit  of  regarding  himself 
superior  to  all  the  world,  became  too  much  a  habit  to  afford  triumph, 
thou  ih  any  circumstances  that  had  lessened  his  consequence  in  his  own 
eyes  would  have  been  matter  of  astonishment  and  indignation.  His  per- 
sonal beauty  was  the  delight  of  the  women,  his  agility  and  hardihood  the 
topic  of  the  men  of  the  village.  For  although  essentially  spoiled,  he  wag 
not  pampered  in  luxury.  His  father,  with  all  his  fondness,  would  have 
despised  him  heartily  had  he  not  been  inured  to  hardship,  and  rendered 
careless  of  it.  Rousseau  might  have  passed  his  approbation  upon  his  physi- 
cal education,  while  his  moral  nurture  was  the  most  perniciously  indulgent, 
Thus,  atth?  same  time,  his  passions  were  fostered,  and  he  possessed  none 
of  those  habits  of  effeminacy,  which  sometimes  stand  in  the  gap,  preventing 
our  young  self-indulged  aristocracy  from  rebelling  against  the  restraints  of 
society.  Still  generous  and  brave  as  was  his  father,  benevolent  and  pious 
as  was  his  sister,  Henry  Fitzhenry  was  naturally  led  to  love  their  virtue?, 
and  to  seek  their  approbation  by  imitating  them.  He  would  not  Manto  ny 
nave  inflicted  a  pang  upon  a  human  being  ;  yet  he  exerted  any  power  he 
might  possess  to  quell  the  smallest  resistance  to  his  desires  ;  and  unless 
when  thev  were  manifested  in  the  most  intelligible  manner,  he  scarcely 
knew  that  his  fellow-creatures  had  any  feelings  at  all  except  pride  and  glad- 
ness in  serving  him,  and  gratitude  when  he  showed  them  kindness.  Any 
poor  family  visned  by  rough  adversity,  any  unfortunate  child  enduring  un- 
just oppression,  he  assisted  earnestly  and  with  all  his  heart.  He  was  I'our- 
azeous  as  a  lion,  and,  upon  occasion,  soft-hearted  and  pitiful ;  but  once 
roused  to  anger  by  opposition,  his  eyes  darted  fire,  his  little  form  sweWed, 
his  boyish  voice  grew  big,  nor  could  he  be  pacified  except  by  the  most  entire 
submission  on  the  part  of  his  antagonist.  Unfortunately  for  him,  submis- 
sion usually  followed  any  stand  made  against  his  authority,  for  it  was  always 
a  contest  with  an  inferior,  and  he  was  never  brought  into  wholesome  struggle 
with  an  equal. 

At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  went  to  Eton,  and  here  every  thing  wore  an 
altered  and  unpleasing  aspect.  Here  were  no  servile  menials  nor  humble 
friends.  He  stood  one  among  many — equals,  superiors,  inferiors,  all  full 
of  a  sense  of  their  own  rights,  their  own  powers ;  he  desired  to  lead,  and 
he  had  no  followers  ;  he  wished  to  stand  aloof,  and  his  dignity,  even  his 
privacy,  was  perpetually  invaded.  His  school-fellows  soon  discovered  his 
weakness  —  it  became  a  by-word  among  them,  and  was  the  object-  of  such 
practical  joke^,  as  seemed  to  the  self-idolizing  boy  at  once  frightful  and 
disgusting.  He  had  no  resource.  Did  he  lay  his  length  under  some  favour- 
ite tree  to  dream  of  home  and  independence  his  tormentors  were  at  hand 
with  some  new  invention  to  rouse  and  molest  him.  He  fixed  his  large  dark 
eyes  on  them,  and  he  curled  his  lips  in  scorn,  trying  to  awe  them  by 
haughtiness  and  frowns,  and  shouts  of  laughter  replied  to  the  concentrated 
passion  of  his  «oul.  He  poured  forth  vehement  invective,  and  hoofings  were 
the  answer.  He  had  one  other  ^source,  and  that  in  the  end  proved  success- 
ful:  —  a  pitched  battle  or  two  elevated  him  in  the  eyes  of  his  fellows,  and 
as  they  began  to  respect  him,  so  he  grew  in  better  humour  with  them  and 
with  himself.  His  good  nature  procured  him  friends,  and  the  sun  once 
more  shone  unclouded  upon  him. 

Yet  this  was  not  all.    He  put  himself  foremost  among  a  troop  of  wild 


22  LODORE. 

and  uncivilized  scnool-boys  ;  but  he  was  not  of  them.  His  tastes,  fostered 
in  solitude,  were  at  once  more  manly  and  dangerous  than  theirs.  He  could 
not  distinguish  the  nice  line  drawn  by  the  customs  of  the  place  between  a 
pardonable  resistance,  or  rather  evasion  of  authority,  and  rebellion  against 
it ;  and  above  all,  he  could  not  submit  to  practise  equivocation  and  deceit. 
His  first  contests  were  with  his  school-fellows,  his  next  were  with  his 
masters.  He  woula  not  stoop  to  shows  of  humility,  nor  tame  a  nature  ac- 
customed to  take  pride  in  daring  and  independence.  He  resented  injustice 
wherever  he  encountered  or  fancied  it ;  he  equally  spumed  it  when  prac- 
tised on  himself  or  defended  others  when  thev  were  its  object  —  freedom 
was  the  watchword  of  his  heart.  Freedom  from  all  trammels,  except  those 
of  which  he  was  wholly  unconscious,  imposed  on  him  by  his  passions  and 
pride.  His  good  nature  led  him  to  side  with  the  weak  ;  and  he  was  indig- 
nant that  his  mere  fiat  did  not  suffice  to  raise  them  to  his  own  level,  o?  that 
his  representations  did  not  serve  to  open  the  eyes  of  all  around  him  to  the 
true  merits  of  any  disputed  question. 

He  had  a  friend  at  school  —  a  youth  whose  slender  frame,  fair,  effeminate 
countenance,  and  gentle  habits,  rendered  him  ridiculous  to  his  fellows, 
while  an  unhappy  incapacity  to  learn  his  allotted  tasks  made  him  in  per- 
petual disgrace  with  his  masters.  The  bov  was  unlike  the  rest :  he  bad 
wild  fancies  and  strange  inexplicable  ideas.  He  said  he  was  a  mystery  to 
himself —  he  was  at  once  so  wise  and  foolish.  The  mere  aspect  of  a 
grt  mmar  inspired  him  with  horror,  and  a  kind  of  delirious  stupidity  seized 
him  in  the  classes  :  and  yet  he  could  discourse  with  eloquence,  and  pored 
with  unceasing  delight  over  books  of  the  abstrusest  philosophy.  He  seemed 
incapable  of  feeling  the  motives  and  impulses  of  other  bovs  :  when  they 
jeered  him.  he  would  answer  gravely  with  some  story  of  a  ghastly  spectre, 
and  tell  wild  legends  of  weird  beings,  who  roamed  through  the  dark  fields 
by  nigM,  or  sat  wailing  by  the  banks  of  streams  :  was  he  struck,  he  smiled 
and  turntd  away ;  he  would  not  fag ;  he  never  refu-ed  to  leam,  but  could 
not :   he  was  the  scoff,  and  butt,  and  victim,  of  the  wi.ole  school. 

Fitzbenry  stood  forward  in  his  behalf,  and  the  face  of  things  was  changed. 
He  insisted  that  his  friend  should  have  the  same  respect  paid  him  as  him- 
self, and  the  boys  left  off  tormenting  him.  When  they  ceased  to  injure, 
thev  began  to  like  him,  and  he  had  soon  a  set  of  friends  whom  he  solaced 
with  his  wild  stories  and  mysterious  notions.  But  his  poweiful  advocate 
was  unable  to  advance  his  cause  with  his  masters,  and  the  cruelty  exercised 
on  him  revolted  Fitzbenrys  generous  souL 

One  day  he  stood  forth  to  expostulate,  and  to  show  wherefore  Derham 
should  not  be  punished  for  a  defect  that  was  not  his  fault.  He  was  ordered 
to  be  silent,  and  he  retorted  the  command  with  fierceness.  As  he  saw  the 
slender,  bendingform  of  his  friend  seized  to  be  led  to  punishment,  he  sprang 
forward  to  rescue  him.  This  open  rebellion  astounded  every  one  ;  a  kind 
of  consternation,  which  feared  to  show  the  gladness  it  felt,  possessed  the 
boyish  subjects  of  the  tyro  kingdom.  Force  conquered  ;  Fitzhenry  was  led 
away ;  and  the  masters  deliberated  what  sentence  to  pass  on  him.  '  He 
saved  them  from  coming  to  a  conclusion  by  flight. 

He  hid  himself  during  the  day  in  "\Vindsor  Forest,  and  at  night  he  entered 
Eton,  and  scaling  a  wall,  tapped  at  the  bed-room  window  of  bis  friend. 
■  Come,"  said  he,  "  come  with  me.  Leave  these  tyrants  to  eat  their  own 
heart?  with  rage  —  my  home  shall  be  your  home." 

Derham  embraced  him,  but  would  not  Ibnsent.  "  My  mother,"  he  said, 
"  I  have  promised  my  mother  to  bear  all ;"  and  tears  pushed  from  bis  large 
light  blue  eves  ;  "but  for  her  the  green  grass  of  this  spring  were  growing 
on  mv  grave.     I  dare  not  pain  her." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Fitzhenry ;  "  nevertheless,  before  the  end  of  a  month,  yon 
shall  be  free,     I  am  leaving  this  wretched  place,  where  men  rule  because 


LOTJOfiE.  23 

they  are  strong,  for  my  father's  house.  I  never  yet  asked  for  a  thing  that 
I  ought  to  have,  that  it  was  not  granted  me.  lam  a  boy  here,  there  am  a 
man  —  ancTcan  do  as  men  da  Representations  shall  be  made  to  your  pa- 
rents ;  y>  1  shall  be  taken  from  school ;  we  shall  be  free  and  happy  "together 
this  summer  at  Longfield.  Good  night ;  I  have  far  to  walk,  for  the  stage 
coachmen  would  be  shy  of  me  near  Eton  ;  but  I  shall  set  to  London  on 
foot,  and  s'eep  to-morrow  in  my  fathers  house.  Keep  up  vour  heart,  Der- 
ham.  be  a  man  —  this  shall  not  last  long  ;  we  shall  triumph  yet." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Whnt  is  youth  ?  a  dancing  billnw, 
Wiods  behind,  and  rocks  before  ! 

W0.R.DSWORTH. 

This  exploit  terminated  Fitzhenry's  career  at  Eton.  A  private  tutor  was 
engaged,  who  resided  with  the  family,  for  the  purpose  of  preparing  him  for 
college,  and  at  the  age  of  seventeen  he  was  entered  at  Oxford.  "He  still 
continued  to  cultivate  the  friendship  of  Derham.  This  voutft  was  the  voun^er 
son  of  a  rich  and  aristocratic  family,  whose  hopes  and"  cares  centred  in  their 
heir,  and  who  cared  little  for  the  comfort  of  the  vounger.  Derham  had 
been  destined  for  the  sea,  and  scarcely  did  his  delicate  health,  and  timid, 
nervous  disposition  exempt  him  from  the  common  fate  of  a  bov,  whose  pa- 
rents did  not  know  what  to  do  with  him.  The  next  idea  vas  to  place  him 
in  the  church  ;  and  at  last,  at  his  earnest  entreaty,  he  was  permitted  to  o-o 
abroad,  to  stidy  at  one  of  tha  German  uui  versifies,  so  to  prepare  himself,  by 
a  fa  ndtarity  with  modem  languages,  for  diplomacy. 

It  was  singular  how  well  Fitzhenry  and  his  sensitive  friend  agreed  ;  — 
the  one  looked  up  with  unfeigned  admiration  —  the  other  fek  attracted  by 
a  mingled  comoa-sion  and  respect,  that  flattered  his  vanitv,  -»-id  vet  served 
as  excitement  and  amusement.  From  Derham,  Fitzhenry  imbibed  in  the- 
ory much  of  that  contempt  of  the  world's  opinion,  and  carelessness  of  con- 
sequences, which  was  inherent  in  the  one,  but  was  an  extraneous  graft  on 
the  p-oud  and  imperious  spirit  of  the  other.  Derham  looked  with  calm 
yet  shy  superiority  on  his  fellow-creatures.  Yet  superioritv  is  not  the 
word,  since  he  did  not  feel  himself  superior  to,  but  different  from  —  incapa- 
ble of  sympathizing  or  extracting  sympathy,  he  turned  away  with  a  smile, 
ani  pursued  his  lonely  path,  thronzed  with  visions  and  fancies' — while  his 
friend,  when  he  met  check  or  rebuff,  would  fire  up,  his  eyes  sparkling,  his 
bosom  heaving  with  intolerable  indignation. 

After  two  years  spent  at  Oxford,  instead  of  remaining  to  take  his  degree, 
Fitzhenry  made  an  earnest  request  to  be  permitted  to  visit  his  friend,  who 
was  ifcen  a:  Jena.  It  was  but  anticipating  the  period  f;r  bis  travels,  a-.d 
upon  nis  p-o  uise  to  pursue  his  studies  abroad,  he  won  a  somewhat  reluctant 
consent  from  his  fath-r.  Once  on  the  continent,  the  mania  of  travellmcr 
seize!  him.  He  visited  Italy,  Poland,  and  Russia:  he  bent  his  wavward 
steps  from  north  to  south,  as  the  whim  seized  him.  He  became  of  age, 
an!  his  father  earnestly  desired  his  return  :  but  again  and  a^ain  he  solicited 
permission  to  remain,  from  autumn  till  spring,  and  from  spring  till  autumn, 
unt  i  the  verv  flower  of  his  youth  seemed  destined  to  be  wasted  in  aimless 
rambles,  anl  an  intercourse  with  foreigners,  that  must  tend  to  unnationalize 
him,  and  to  render  him  unfit  for  a  career  in  his  own  countrv.  Growing  ac- 
custom *d  to  regulate  his  own  actions,  he  changed  the  tone  of  request  into 
that  of  announcing  his  intentions.     At  length,  he  was  summoned  home  to 


t4  LobfcRE. 

attend  the  death-bed  of  his  father.  He  paid  the  last  duties  to  his  remains* 
provided  for  the  comfortable  -establishment  of  his  sister  in  the  family  man* 
sion  at  Longfield,  and  then  informed  her  of  his  determination  of  returning 
immediately  to  Vienna. 

During  this  visit  he  had  appeared  to  live  rather  in  a  dream  than  in  the 
actual  world.  He  had  mourned  for  his  father ;  he  paid  the  most  affection- 
ate attentions  to  his  sister ;  but  this  formed,  as  it  were,  the  suifare  of 
things  ;  a  mightier  impulse  ruled  his  inner  mind.  His  life  seemed  to  de- 
pend upon  certain  letters  which  he  received  :  and  when  the  day  had  been 
occupied  by  business,  he  passed  the  night  in  writing  answers.  He  was 
often  agitated  in  the  highest  degree,  almost  always  abstracted  in  reverie. 
The  outward  man  —  the  case  —  of  Lodore  was  in  England  —  his  passion- 
ate and  undisciplined  soul  was  far  away,  evidently  in  the  keeping  of  another. 

Elizabeth,  sorrowing  for  the  loss  of  her  father,  was  doubly  afflicted  when 
she  heard  that  it  was  her  brother's  intention  to  quit  England  immediately. 
She  had  fondly  hoped  that  he  would,  adorned  by  his  newly-inherited  title, 
and  endowed  with  the  gifts  of  fortune,  step  upon  the  stage  of  the  world, 
and  shine  forth  the  hero  of  his  age  and  country.  B  er  affections,  her  future 
prospects,  her  ambition,  were  all  centred  in  him  ;  and  it  was  a  bitter  pang 
to  feel  that  the  glory  of  these  was  to  be  eclipsed  by  the  obscurity  and  dis- 
tant residence  which  he  preferred.  Accustomed  to  obedience,  and  to  re- 
gard the  resolutions  of  the  men  about  her,  as  laws  with  which  she  had  no 
right  to  interfere,  she  did  not  remonstrate,  she  only  wept.  Moved  by  her 
tears,  Lord  Lodore  made  the  immense  sacrifice  of  one  month  to  gratify  her, 
which  he  spent  in  reading  and  writing  letters  at  Longfield,  in  pacing  the  • 
rooms  or  avenues  absorbed  in  reverie,  or  in  riding  over  the  most  solitary 
districts,  with  no  object  apparently  in  view,  except  that  of  avoiding  his  fel- 
low-creatures. Elizabeth  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  the  top  of  his  head  as 
he  leaned  over  his  desk  in  the  library,  from  a  little  hillock  in  the  garden, 
which  she  sought  for  the  purpose  of  beholding  that  blessed  vision.  She 
enjoyed  also  the  pleasure  of  hearing  him  pace  his  room  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  nieht.  Sometimes  he  conversed  with  her,  and  then  how  like  a 
god  he  seemed !  His  extensive  acquaintance  with  men  and  things,  the 
novel  but  choice  language  in  which  he  clothed  his  ideas  ;  his  vivid  descrip- 
tions, his  melodious  voice,  and  the  exquisite  grace  of  his  manner,  made  him 
rise  like  the  planet  of  day  upon  her.  Too  soon  her  sun  set.  If  ever  she 
hinted  at  the  prolongation  of  his  stay,  he  grew  moody,  and  she  discovered 
with  tearful  anguish  that  his  favourite  ride  was  towards  the  sea,  often  to  the 
very  shore  :  "  1  seem  half  free  when  I  only  look  upon  the  waves,"  he  said  ; 
"they  remind  me  that  the  period  of  liberty  is  at  hand,  when  I  shall  leave 
this  dull  land  for " 

A  sob  from  his  sister  checked  his  speech,  and  he  repented  his  ingrati- 
tude. Yet  when  the  promised  month  had  elapsed,  he  did  not  defer  hia 
journey  a  single  day  :  already  had  he  engaged  his  passage  at  Harwich. 
A  fair  wind  favoured  his  immediate  departure.  Elizabeth  accompanied  him 
on  board,  almost  she  wished  to  be  asked  to  sail  with  him.  No  wqrd  but 
that  of  a  kind  adieu  was  uttered  by  him.  She  returned  to  shor^  and 
watched  his  lessening  sail.  Wherefore  did  he  leave  his  native  country  ? 
Wherefore  return  to  reside  in  lands,  whose  language,  manners,  and  reli 
gion,  were  all  at  variance  with  his  own  ?  These  questions  occupied  the 
gentle  spinster's  thoughts  ;  she  had  little  except  such  meditations!  to  vary  the 
hours,  as  years  stole  on  unobserved,  and  she  continued  to  spend  her  blame- 
less tranquil  days  in  her  native  village. 

The  new  Lord  Lodore  was  one  of  those  men,  not  unfrequently  met  with 
in  the  world,  whose  early  youth  is  replete  with  mighty  promise  ;  who,  as 
they  advance  in  life,  continue  to  excite  the  expectation,  the  curiosity,  and 
even  the  enthusiasm  of  all  around  them ;  but  as  the  sun  on  a  stormy  day 


now  and  then  glimmers  forth,  giving  us  hopes  of  conquering  brightness, 
and  yet  sl^>s  down  to  its  evening  echj.se  without  redeeming  the  pledge;  so 
do  these  m  m  present  every  app  arance  of  one  day  making  a  conspicuous 
fi  {\\re,  and  ynl  to  the  end,  as  it  were,  the}'  only  gild  the  edges  of  the  clouds 
in  which  they  hide  themselves,  and  arrive  at  the  term  of  life,  the  promise 
of  it*  dawn  anful  illed.  Passion,  and  the  consequent  engrossing  occupa- 
tions, usurped  the  place  of  laudable  ambition  and  useful  exertion.  He 
wist^d  his  nobler  energies  upon  pursuits  which  were  mysteries  to  the 'world, 
yet  which  fo  med  the  sum  of  his  existence.  It  was  not  that  he  was  desti- 
tute of  loftier  aspirations.  Ambition  was  the  darling  growth  of  his  scul 
—  but  weeds  an!  parasites,  an  unregulated  and  unpruned  overgrowth, 
twist  >,d  its  df  around  the  healthier  plant,  and  threatened  its  destruction. 

Sometimes  he  appeared  amon^the  English  in  the  capital  towns  of  the 
continent,  anl  was  always  welcomed  with  delight.  His  manners  were 
hi  ;hly  engaging,  a  little  reserved  with  men,  unless  they  were  intimates, 
attentive  to  wonrm.  and  to  them  a  subject  of  interest,  they  scarcely  knew 
whv.  A  mysterious  fair  one  was  spoken  of  as  the  cynosure  of  his  destiny, 
and  some  desired  to  discover  his  secret,  while  others  would  have  been  glad 
to  break  the  spell  that  bound  him  to  this  hidden  star.  Often  for  months  he 
disappeared  altogether,  and  was  spoken  of  as  having  secluded  himself  in 
sons  unattainable  district  of  northern  Germany,  Poland,  or  Courland. 
Yet  all  these  erratic  movements  were  certainly  governed  by  one  law,  and 
th  it  was  love  ;  —  iove  unchangeable  and  intense,  else  wherefore  was  he 
cold  to  the  attractions  of  his  fair  countrywomen  ?  And  why,  though  he 
gazed  with  admiration  and  interest  on  Jhe  families  of  lovely  girls,  whose 
successive  visitations  on  the  continent  strike  the  natives  with  such  wonder, 
why  did  he  not  select  some  distinguished  beauty,  with  blue  eyes,  and 
auburn  locks,  as  the  object  of  his  exclusive  admiration?  He  had  often 
conversed  with  such  with  seeming  delight ;  but  ne  could  withdraw  from  the 
fascination  unharmed  and  free.  Sometimes  a  very  kind  and  agreeable 
mamma  contrived  half  to  domesticate  him  ;  but  after  lounging,  and  turn- 
ing over  music-books,  and  teaching  steps  for  a  week,  he  was  gone — a 
farewell  card  probably  the  only  token  of  regret. 

Yet  he  was  universally  liked,  and  the  ladies  were  never  weary  of  auguring 
the  tim  ^  to  be  not  far  off,  when  he  would  desire  to  break  the  chains  that  bound 
him  ;  —  and  then  — he  must  marry.  He  was  so  quiet,  so  domestic,  so  gen- 
tle, that  he  would  make,  doubtless,  a  kind  and  affectionate  husband. 
Among  Englishmen,  he  had  a  friend  or  two,  by  courtesy  so  called,  who 
were  eager  for  him  to  return  to  his  native  country,  and  to  enter  upon  public 
life.  He  lent  a  willing  ear  to  these  persuasions,  and  appeared  annoyed  at 
some  secret  necessity  that  prevented  his  yielding  to  them.  Once  or  twice 
he  had  sa  d,  that  his  present  mode  of  life  should  not  last  for  ever,  and  th&t  he 
would  come  among  them  at  no  distant  day,  And  yet  years  stole  on,  and 
mvste'-y  ani  obscurity  clouded  him.  He  grew  grave,  almost  sombre,  auJ 
then  almost  d  scontented.  Any  one  habituated  to  him  might  have  discov- 
ered struggles  beneath  the  additional  seriousness  of  his  demeanour  —  strug- 
gles that  promised  final  emancipation  from  his  long-drawn  thraldom. 


LODOSE, 


CHAPTER    Vlf. 

Men  oftentimes  prepare  a  lot. 
Which  ere  h  finds  ihem;  is  not  what 
Suits  with  their  genuine  station. 

fcHELLET. 

At  the  age  of  thirty-two,  Lord  Lodore  returned  to  England,  It  was 
subject  of  discussion  among  his  friends,  whether  this  was  to  be  a  merely 
temporary  visit,  or  whether  he  was  about  to  establish  himself  finally  in  his 
own  country.  Meanwhile,  he  became  the  lion  of  the  day.  As  the  reputed 
slave  of  the  fair  sex,  he  found  favour  in  their  gentle  eyes.  Even  blooming 
fifteen  saw  all  that  was  romantic  and  winning  in  his  fubdw d  ?rd  £i?(  eful 
manners,  and  the  melancholy  which  dwelt  in  his  dark  eyes.  The  chief  fault 
found  with  him  was,  that  he  was  rather  taciturn  and  that,  from  whatever 
cause,  woman  had  apparently  ceased  to  influence  his  soul  to  love.  He 
avoided  intimacies  among  them,  and  seemed  to  regard  them  from  afar,  with 
observant  but  passionless  eyes.  Some  spoKe  of  a  spent  volcano  —  others 
of  a  fertile  valley  ravaged  by  storms,  and  turned  into  a  desert ;  while  many 
cherished  the  hope  of  renewing  the  flame,  or  of  replanting  flowers  on  the 
arid  soil. 

Lord  Lodore  had  just  emancipated  himself  from  an  influence,  which  hh  \ 
become  the  most  grievous  slavery,  f-om  the  moment  it  had  ceased  to  be  a 
voluntary  servitude.  He  had  broken  the  ties  that  had  so  U*rig  held  him; 
but  this  had  not  been  done  without  such  di°iculties  and  truggles,  as  made 
freedom  less  delightful,  from  the  languor  and  regret  that  accompanied  vic- 
tory. Lodore  had  *ormed  but  one  resolve,  which  was  not  to  entangle  him- 
self again  ir  unlawful  pursuits,  where  the  better  energies  of  his  mind  were 
to  be  spent  in  forging  deceptions,  and  tranquillizing  the  mind  of  a  jealous 
and  unhappy  woman.  He  entertained  a  va<j;ue  wish  to  marry,  and  to 
marry  one  whom  his  judgment,  rather  than  his  love,  should  select ;  —  an 
unwise  purpose,  good  in  theory,  but  very  defective  in  practice.  Besides  this 
new  idea  of  marrying,  which  he  buried  as  a  profound  secret  in  his  own  bo- 
som, he  wished  to  accustom  himself  to  the  manners  and  customs  of  his  own 
country,  so  as  to  enable  him  to  enter  upon  public  life.  He  was  fond  of  the 
country  in  England,  and  entered  with  zeal  upon  tLe  pleasures  of  the  chase. 
He  liked  the  life  led  at  the  seats  of  the  great,  and  endeavoured  to  do  his 
part  in  amusing  those  around  him. 

Yet  he  did  not  feel  one  of  them.  Above  all,  he  did  not  feel  within  rum 
the  charm  of  life,  the  glad  spirit  that  looks  on  each  returning  Jay  as  a 
blessing ;  and  which,  gilding  every  common  object  with  its  own  brightness, 
requires  no  lustre  unborrowed  from  itself.  All  things  palled  upon  Lodore,, 
The  light  laughter  and  gentle  voices  of  women  were  vacant  of  attraction  ; 
his  sympathy  was  not  excited  by  the  discussions  or  pursuits  of  men.  After 
striving  for  a  whole  year  to  awaken  in  himself  an  interest  for  some  one 
person  or  thing,  and  finding  all  to  be  "  vanity,"  —  towards  the  close  of  a 
season  in  town,  of  extreme  brilliancy  and  variety  to  common  eyes  —  of 
dulness  and  sameness  to  his  morbid  sense,  he  suddenly  withdrew  himself 
from  the  haunts  of  men,  and  plunging  into  solitude,  tried  to  renovate  his 
soul  by  self-communings,  and  an  intercourse  with  silent,  but  most  eloquent 
Nature, 

Youth  wasted  ;  affections  sown  on  sand,  barren  of  return  ;  wealth  and 
station  flung  as  weeds  upon  the  rocks  ;  a  name,  whose  "  gold  "  waz  "  o'er- 
dusted"  by  the  inertness  of  its  wearer ;  —  such  were  the  retrospc^sicaas  thai 


J.ODORE.  27 

haunted  his  troubled  mind.  He  envied  the.»plough-bov,  who  whistled  aa 
he^went ;  and  the  laborious  cottager,  who  eacn  Saturday  bestowed  upon 
his'  family  the  hard-won  and  scanty  earnings  of  the  week.  He  pined  for 
an  aim  in  life  —  a  bourne  —  a  necessity,  to  give  zest  to  his  palled  appetite, 
and  excitement  to  his  satiated  soul.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hail 
poverty  and  care  as  blessings  ;  and  that  the  dearest  gifts  of  fortune  —  youth, 
health,  rank,  and  riches  —  were  disguised  curses.  All  these  he  possessed, 
and  despised.  Gnawing  discontent ;  energy,  rebuked  and  tamed  into  mere 
disquietude,  for  want  of  a  proper  object,  preyed  upon  his  soul.  Where 
could  a  remedy  be  found  ?  No  "  green  spot"  of  delight  soothed  his  memory; 
no  cheering  prospect  appeared  in  view ;  all  was  and,  gloomy,  unsunned 
upon. 

He  had  wandered  into  Wales.  He  was  charmed  with  the  scenery  and 
solitude  about.  Rhyaider  Gowy,  in  Radnorshire,  which  lies  amidst  romantic 
mountains,  and  in  immediate  vicinity  to  a  cataract  of  the  Wye.  He  fixed 
himself  for  some  months  in  a  convenient  mansion,  which  he  found  to  let, 
at  a  few  miles  from  that  place.  Here  he  was  secure  from  unwelcome 
visiters,  or  any  communication  with  the  throng  he  had  left.  He  corres- 
ponded with  no  one,  read  no  newspapers.  He  passed  his  day  loitering 
beside  waterfalls,  clambering  the  steep  mountains,  or  making  longer 
excursions  on  horseback,  always  directing  his  course  away  from  high  roads 
or  towns.  His  past  life  had  been  sufficiently  interesting  to  afford  scope  for 
reverie  ;  and  as  he  watched  the  sunbeams  as  they  climbed  the  hills  at 
evening,  or  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  as  they  careered  across  the  valleys, 
his  heart  by  turns  mourned  or  rejoiced  over  its  freedom,  and  the  chancre 
that  had  come  over  it  and  stilled  its  warring  passions. 

The  only  circumstance  that  in  the  least  intrenched  upon  his  feelinc  of 
entire  seclusion,  was  the  mention,  not  unfrequently  made  to  mm  by  his 
servants,  of  the  "  ladies  at  the  farm."  The  idea  of  these  "  ladies'-  at  first 
annoved  him  ;  but  the  humble  habitation  which  they  had  chosen  —  humble 
to  poverty  —  impressed  him  with  the  belief  that,  however  the  "ladies" 
mi^ht  awe-strike  the  Welsh  peasantry,  he  should  find  in  them  nothing  that 
would  imoress  him  with  the  idea  of  station.  Two  or  three  times,  at  the 
distant  si^ht  of  a  bonnet,  instead  of  the  Welsh  hat,  he  had  altered  his  course 
to  avoid  the  wearer.  Once  he  had  suddenly  come  on  one  of  these  wonders 
of  the  mountains :  she  might  have  passed  for  a  very  civilized  kind  of  abigail ; 
but,  of  course,  she  was  one  of  the  "ladies." 

As  Lodore  was  neither  a  poet  nor  a  student,  he  began  at  last  to  tire  of 
londiness.  He  was  a  little  ashamed  when  he  remembered  that  he  had 
taken  his  present  abode  for  a  year :  however,  he  satisfied  his  conscience 
bv  a  resolve  to  return  to  it ;  and  began  seriously  to  plan  crossing  the  coun- 
try, to  visit  his  sister  in  Essex.  He  was,  during  one  of  his  rides,  deliberat- 
ing on  Dnttinz  this  resolve  into  execution  on  the  very  next  morning,  when 
suld^nlvhe  was  overtaken  by  a  storm.  The  valley,  through  which  his 
path  wound,  was  narrow,  and  the  gathering  clouds  overhead  made  it  dark 
as  ni^ht ;  the  li  ihtning  flashed  with  peculiar  brightness  ;  and  the  thunder, 
loud  and  bellowing,  was  re-echoed  by  the  hills,  and  reverberated  along  the 
skv  in  terrific  pealings.  It  was  more  like  a  continental  storm  than  any 
wh;ch  Lodore  had  ever  witnessed  in  En  iland,  and  imparted  to  him  a  sen- 
sation of  thrilling  pleasure  ;  till,  as  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents,  he  began 
to  think  of  seeking  some  shelter,  at  least  for  his  horse.  Looking  round  for 
thi=*,  he  all  at  once  perceived  a  vision  of  white  muslin  beneath  a  ledge  of 
rock,  which  could  but  half  protect  the  gentle  wearer:  frightene  she  was, 
too.  as  a  slight  shriek  testified,  when  a  bright  flash,  succeeded  instanta- 
neously by  a  loud  peal  of  thunder,  bespoke  the  presence  of  something  like 
danger.  Lodore's  habitual  tenderness  of  nature  rendered  it  no  second 
thought  with  him  to  alight  and  offer  his  services  j  and  he  was  fully  repaid 


28  LODORE. 

when  he  saw  her,  who  hailed  with  gladness  a  protector,  though  too  fright* 
ened  to  smile,  or  scarcely  to  speak.  She  was  very  young,  and  more  beau- 
tiful, Lodore  was  at  once  assured,  than  any  thing  he  had  ever  before  beheld. 
Her  fairness,  increased  by  the  paleness  of  terror,  was  even  snowy;  her 
hair  scarcely  dark  enough  for  ehesnut,  too  dark  for  auburn,  clustered  in 
rich  curls  on  her  brow ;  her  eyes  were  dark  gray,  long,  and  full  of  expres- 
sion, as  they  beamed  from  beneath  their  deeply -fringed  lids.  But  such 
description  says  little ;  it  was  not  the  form  of  eye  or  the  brow's  arch,  correct 
and  beautiful  as  these  were,  in  this  lovely  girl,  that  imparted  her  peculiar 
attraction ;  beyond  these  there  was  a  radiance,  a  softness,  an  ange-l  look, 
that  rendered  her  countenance  singular  in  its  fascination  ;  an  expression  of 
innocence  and  sweetness  ;  a  pleading  gentleness  that  desired  protection  ; 
a  glance  that  subdued,  because  it  renounced  all  victory  ;  and  this  now 
animated  by  fear,  quickly  excited,  in  Lodore,  the  most  ardent  desire  to  re- 
assure and  serve  her.  She  leaned,  as  she  stood,  against  the  rock  —  now 
hiding  her  face  with  her  hands  —  now  turning  her  eyes  to  her  stranger 
companion,  as  if  in  appeal  or  disbelief,  while  "he  again  and  again  protested 
that  there  was  no  danger,  and  strove  to  guard  her  from  the  rain  which  still 
descended  with  violence.  The  thunder  died  away,  and  the  lightning  soon 
ceased  to  flash,  but  this  continued  ;  and  while  the  colour  revisited  the  young 
girl  s  cheek,  and  her  smiles,  displaying  a  thousand  dimples,  lighted  up  new 
charms,  a  fresh  uneasiness  sprung  up  in  her  of  how  she  could  get  home. 
Her  chaussure,  ill  fitted  even  for  the  mountains,  could  not  protect  her  for  a 
moment  from  the  wet.  Lodore  offered  his  horse,  and  judged  himself  for 
its  quietness,  and  his  care,  if  she  could  contrive  to  sit  in  the  saddle.  He 
lifted  her  light  form  on  to  it;  but  the  high-bred  animal  beginning  a  little  to 
prance,  she  threw  herself  off  into  the  arms  of  her  new  friend,  in  a  transport  of 
terror,  which  Lodore  could  by  no  means  assuage.  What  was  to  be  done? 
He  felt,  light  as  she  was,  that  he  could  carry  her  the  short  half-mile  to  her 
home  ;  but  this  could  not  be  offered.  The  rain  was  now  over ;  and  her 
only  resource  was  to  brave  the  humid  soil  in  kid  slippers.  A\  ith  consider- 
able difficulty,  half  the  journey  was  accomplished, when  they  met  the  "lady" 
whom  Lodore  had  before  seen  ;  —  realty  the  maid  in  attendance,  who  bad 
come  out  to  seek  her  young  mistress,  and  to  declare  that  "  my  lady  "  was 
beside  herself  with  anxiety  on  her  account. 

Lodore  still  insisted  on  conducting  his  young  charge  to  her  home;  and 
the  next  day  it  was  but  matter  of  politeness  to  call  to  express  his  hope  that 
she  had  not  suffered  f  om  her  exposure  to  the  weather.  He  lound  the  lovely 
girl,  fresh  as  the  morning,  with  looks  all  light  and  sweetness,  seated  beside 
her  mother,  a  lady  whose  appearance  was  not  so  prepossessing,  though 
adorned  with  more  than  the  remains  of  beauty.  She  at  once  struck  Lodore 
as  disagreeable  and  forbidding.  Still  she  was  cordial  in  her  welcome, 
grateful  for  his  kindness,  and  so  perfectly  engrossed  by  the  thought  of, 
and  love  for,  her  child,  that  Lodore  felt  his  respect  and  interest  awakened. 

An  acquaintance,  thus  begun,  between  the  noble  recluse  and  the  "  ladies 
of  the  farm,"  proceeded  prosperously.  A  month  ago,  Lodore  would  not 
have  believed  that  he  should  feel  glad  at  finding  two  fair  off-shoots  of  Lon- 
don fashion  dwelling  so  near  his  retreat ;  but  even  if  solitude  had  not  ren- 
dered him  tolerant,  the  loveliness  of  the  daughter  might  well  perform  a 
greater  miracle.  In  the  mother,  he  found  good  breeding,  good  nature, 
and  good  sense.  He  soon  became  almost  domesticated  in  their  rustic 
habitation. 

Lady  Santerre  was  of  humble  birth,  the  daughter  of  a  solicitor  of  a  coun- 
try town.  She  was  handsome,  and  won  the  heart  of  Mr.  Santerre,  then  a 
minor,  who  was  assisted  by  her  father  in  the  laudable  endeavour  to  obtain 
more  money  than  his  father  allowed  him.  The  young  gentleman  .saw, 
loved,  and  married.  His  parents  were  furiously  angry,  and  tried  to  illegal- 


LODORE.  ^..  29 

ize  the  match  ;  but  he  confirmed  it  when  he  came  of  age,  and  a  reconcilia- 
tion with  his  family  never  took  place.  Mr.  Santerre  sold  reversions,  turned 
expectations  into  money,  md  lived  in  the  world.  For  six  years,  his  wife 
bloomed  in  the  gay  parterre  of  fashionable  society,  when  her  husband's 
father  died.  Prosperity  was  to  dawn  on  this  event :  the  new  Sir  John  went 
down  to  attend  his  father's  funeral ;  thence  to  return  to  town,  to  be  immersed 
in  recoveries,  settlements,  and  law.  He  never  returned.  Riding  across  the 
country  to  a  neighbour,  Lis  horse  shyed,  reared,  and  threw  him.  His  head 
struck  against  a  fragment  of  stone:  a  concussion  of  the  brain  ensued  ;  and 
a  fortnight  afterwards,  he  was  enclosed  beside  his  father,  in  the  ancestral 
vault. 

His  widow  was  the  mother  of  a  daughter  only;  aid  her  hopes  and  pros- 
pects died  with  her  husband.  His  brother  and  heir  might  have  treated  her 
better  in  the  sequel ;  but  he  was  excessively  irritated  by  the  Variety  of  debts 
and  encumbrances  and  lawsuits  he  had  to  deal  with.  He  chose  to  consider 
the  wife  most  to  blame,  and  she  and  her  child  were  treated  as  aliens.  He 
allowed  them  two  hundred  a  year,  and  called  himself  generous.  This  was 
all  (for  her  father  was  not  rich,  and  had  a  laige  family)  that  poor  Lady 
Santerre  had  to  depend  upon.  She  struggled  on  for  some  little  time,  trying 
to  keep  up  her  connexions  in  the  gay  world  ;  but  poverty  is  a  tyrant,  whose 
laws  are  more  terrible  than  those  of  Draco.  Lady  Santerre  yielded,  retired 
to  Bath,  and  fixed  her  hopes  on  her  daughter,  whom  she  resolved  should 
hereafter  make  a  splendid  match.  Her  excessive  beauty  promised  to  ren- 
der this  scheme  feasible;  and  now  that  she  was  nearly  sixteen,  her  mother 
began  to  look  forward  anxiously.  She  had  retired  to  Wales  this  summer, 
that,  by  living  with  yet  stricter  economy,  she  might  be  enabled,  during  the 
winter,  to  put  her  plans  into  execution  with  greater  ease. 

Lord  Lodore  became  intimate  with  the  mother  and  daughter,  and  his 
imagination  speedily  painted  both  in  the  most  attractive  colours.  Here  was 
the  very  being  his  heart  had  pined  for — a  girl  radiant  in  innocence  and 
youth,  the  nursling1,  so  he  fancied,  of  mountains,  waterfalls,  and  solitude ; 
yet  endowed  with  ail  the  softness  and  refinement  of  civilized  society.  Long 
forgotten  emotions  awoke  in  his  heart,  and  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  bewil- 
dering feelings  that  beset  him.  Every  thing  was  calculated  to  excite  his 
interest.  The  de=  )late  situation  of  the  mother,  devoted  to  her  daughter 
onlv.  and  that  daughter  fairer  than  imagination  could  paint,  young,  gentle, 
blameless,  knowing  nothing  beyond  obedience  to  her  parent,  and  untaught 
in  the  guile  of  mankind.  It  was  impossible  to  see  that  intelligent  and  sweet 
face,  and  not  feel  that  to  be  the  first  to  impress  love  in  the  heart  which  it 
mirrored,  was  a  destiny  which  angels  might  envy.  How  proud  a  part  was 
his,  to  gift  her  with  rank,  fo  tune,  and  all  earthly  blessings,- and  to  receive 
in  r  'turn,  gratitude,  tenderness,  and  unquestioning  submission  !  If  love  did 
not,  as  thus  he  reasoned,  show  itself  in  the  tyrant  guise  it  had  formerly  as- 
sumed in  the  heart  of  Lodore,  it  was  the  more  we* come  a  guest.  It  spcke 
not  of  the  miseries  of  passion,  but  offered  a  bright  view  of  lengthened  days 
of  peace,  and  contented n ess.  He  was  not  a  slave  at  the  feet  of  his  mistress, 
but  he  could  watch  each  gesture  and  catch  each  sound  of  her  voice,  and  say, 
Goodness  and  beautv  are  there,  and  I  shall  be  happy. 

He  found  the  lovely  girl  somewhat  ignorant;  but  white  paper  to  be  writ- 
ten upon  at  will,  is  a  favounte  metaphor  among  those  men  who  have  de- 
scribed the  ideal  of  a  wife.  That  sh°  had  talent  beyond  what  he  had  usually 
found  in  women,  he  was  delighted  to  remark.  At  first  she  was  reserved 
and  shy.  Little  accustomed  to  society,  she  sat  beside  her  mother,  in  some- 
thing Uke  a  company  attitude  ;  her  eyes  cast  down,  her  lips  closed.  She 
was  never  to  be  found  alone,  and  a.jeu»e  perscmne  in  France  could  scarcely 
be  more  retired  and  tranquil.  This  accorded  better  with  Lodore's  continen- 
tal experience,  than  the  ease  of  English  fashionable  girls,  and  he  was  pleased* 
S* 


SO  LODORE. 

He  conversed  little  with  Cornelia  until  he  had  formed  his  determination,  she 
solicited  her  mother's  consent  to  their  union.  Then  they  were  allowed  To 
walk  together,  and  she  gained  on  him,  as  their  intimacy  increased.  She 
was  very  lively,  witty,  and  lull  of  playful  fancy.  Aware  of  her  own  defi- 
ciencies in  education,  she  was  the  first  to  laugh  at  herself,  and  to  make  such 
remarks  as  showed  an  understanding  worth  all  ;he  accomplishments  in  the 
world.  Lodore  now  really  found  himself  in  love,  and  blessed  the  day  that 
led  him  from  among  the  fair  daughters  of  fashion  to  this  child  of  nature. 
His  wayward  feelings  were  to  change  no  more  —  his  destipy  was  fixed.  At 
thirty  four  to  marry,  to  settle  into  the  father  of  a  family,  his  hopes  and  wishes 
concentrated  in  a  home,  adorned  by  one  whose  beauty  was  that  of  angels, 
was  a  prospect  that  he  dwelt  upon  each  day  with  renewed  satisfaction. 
Nothing  in  after  years  could  disturb  his  felicity,  and  the  very  security  with 
which  he  contemplated  the  future,  imparted  a  calm  delight,  at  once  new  and 
grateful  to  a  heart  weary  of  storms  and  struggles,  and  which,  in  finding 
peace,  believed  that  it  possessed  the  consummation  of  human  happiness. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Hopes,  what  are  they  ?  beads  or  morning 

Strung  on  slender  blades  of  grass, 

Or  a  spider's  web  adorning, 

In  a  strait  and  treacherous  pass. 

Wordsworth. 

The  months  of  July,  August,  and  September  had  passed  away.  Lord 
Lodore  enjoyed,  during  the  two  last,  a  singularly  complacent  state  of  mind. 
He  had  come  to  Wales  with  worn-out  spirits,  a  victim  to  that  darker  species 
of  ennui,  which  colours  with  gloomy  tints  the  future  as  well  as  the  present, 
and  is  the  ministering  angel  of  evil  to  the  rich  and  prosperous.  He  des- 
pised himself,  contemned  his  pursuits,  and  called  all  vanity  beneath  the 
vivifying  sun  of  heaven.  Real  misfortunes  have  worn  the  guise  of  bless- 
ings to  men  so  aitlicted,  but  he  was  withdrawn  from  this  position,  by  a 
being  who  wore  the  outward  semblance  of  an  angel,  and  from  whom  he 
felt  assured  nothing  but  good  could  flow. 

Cornelia  Santerre  was  lovely,  vivacious,  witty,  and  good-humoured  ;  yet, 
strange  to  say,  her  new  lover  was  not  rendered  happy  so  much  by  the  pres- 
ence of  these  qualities,  as  by  the  promise  which  they  gave  for  the  future. 
He  loved  her ;  he  believed  that  she  would  be  to  the  end  of  his  life  a  bless- 
ing and  a  delight ;  yet  passion  was  scarcely  roused  in  his  heart ;  it  was 
"  a  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss,"  and  a  reasonable  belief  in  the  contin- 
uance of  this  state,  that  made  him,  while  he  loved  her,  regard  her  rather 
as  a  benefactress  than  a  mistress. 

Benefactress  is  a  strange  word  to  use,  especially  as  her  extreme  youth 
was  probably  the  cause  that  more  intimate  sympathies  did  not  unite  them, 
and  why  passion  entered  so  slightly  into  their  intercourse.  It  is  possible, 
so  great  was  the  discrepancy  of  their  age,  and  consequently  of  their  feelings 
and  views  of  life,  that  Lodore  would  never  have  thought  of  marrying  Cor- 
nelia but  that  Lady  Santerre  was  at  hand  to  direct  the  machinery  of  the 
drama.  She  inspired  him  with  the  wish  to  gift  her  angelic  child  with  the 
worldly  advantages  which  his  wife  must  possess  ;  to  play  a  god-like  part, 
and  to  lift  into  prosperity  and  happiness  one  who  seemed  destined  by  for- 
tune to  struggle  with  adversity.  Lady  Santerre  was  a  worldly  woman 
and  an  oily  flatterer ;  Lodore  had  been  accustomed  to  feminine  control, 
and  he  yielded  with  docility  to  her  silken  fetters. 


LODORE.  31 

The  ninth  of  October  was  Cornelia's  sixteenth  birth-day,  and  on  it  she 
became  the  wife  of  Lord  Lodore.  This  event  took  place  in  the  parish 
church  of  Rhyaider  Gowy,  and  it  was  communicated  to  "  the  world  "  in 
the  newspapers.  Many  discussions  then  arose  as  to  who  Miss  Santerre 
could  be.  "  The  only  dau  ,bter  of  the  late  Sir  John."  The  only  late"  Sir 
John  Santerre  remembered,  was,  in  fact,  the  grandfather  of  the  bride,  and 
the  hiatus  in  her  genealogy,  caused  by  her  father's  death  before  he  had 
been  known  as  a  baronet,  puzzled  every  fashionable  gossip.  The  whole 
affair,  however,  had  been  forgotten,  when  curiosity  was  again  awakened 
in  the  ensuing  month  of  March,  by  an  announcement  in  the  Mornin°-  Post, 
of  the  arrival  of  the  noble  pair  at  Mivart's.  Lord  Lodore  had  always 
rented  a  box  at  the  King's  Theatre.  It  had  been  newly  decorated  at.  the 
beginning  of  the  season  and  on  the  first  Saturday  in  April  all  eyes  turned 
towards  it  as  he  entered,  having  the  loveliest,  fairest,  and  most  sylph- like 
girl,  that  ever  trod  dark  earth,  leaning  on  his  arm.  There  was  a  child-like 
innocence,  a  fascinating  simplicity,  joined  to  an  expression  of  vivacity  and 
happiness,  in  Lady  Lodore' s  countenance,  which  impressed  at  first  sight, 
as  being  the  completion  of  feminine  beauty.  She  looked  as  if  no  time 
could  touch,  no  ill  stain  her  ;  artless  affection  and  amiable  dependence 
spoke  in  each  graceful  gesture.  Others  might  be  beautiful,  but  there  was 
that  in  her  which  seemed  allied  to  celestial  loveliness. 

Such  was  the  prize  Lord  Lodore  had  won.  The  new-married  pair  took 
tap  their  residence  in  Berkeley-square,  and  here  Lady  Santerre  joined  them, 
and  took  possession  of  the  apartments  appropriated  to  her  use,  under  her 
daughter's  roof.  All  appeared  bright  on  the  outside,  and  each  seemed  happy 
in  each  other.  Yet  had  any  one  cared  to  remark,  they  had  perceived  that 
Lodore  looked  even  more  abstracted  than  before  his  marriage.  They  had 
seen,  that,  in  the  domestic  coterie,  mother  and  daughter  were  familiar 
friends,  sharing  each  thou sht  arnd  wish,  but  that  Lodore  was  one  apart, 
banished,  or  exiling  himself  from  the  dearest  blessings  of  friendship  and  love. 
There  might  be  no  concealment,  but  also  there  was  no  frankness  between 
the  pair.  Neither  practised  disguise,  but  there  was  no  outpouring  of  the 
heart  —  no  "touch  of  nature,"  which,  passing  like  an  electric  shock,  made 
their  souls  one.  An  insurmountable  barrier  stood  between  Lodore  and  his 
happiness  — between  his  love  and  his  wife's  confidence  ;  that  this  obstacle 
was  a  shadow  —  undefined  —  formless  —  nothing  —  yet  every  thins;,  made 
it  trebly  hateful,  and  rendered  it  utterly  impossible  that  it  should  be  re- 
moved. 

The  magician  who  had  raised  this  ominous  phantom,  was  Lady  Santerre. 
She  was  a  clever  though  uneducated  woman  :  perfectly  selfish,  soured  with 
the  world,  yet  clinging  to  it.  To  make  good  her  second  entrance  on  its 
stag;9,  she  believed  it  necessary  to  preserve  unlimited  sway  over  the  plastic 
mind  of  her  daughter.  If  she  had  acted  with  integrity,  her  end  had  been 
equally  well  secured  ;  but  unfortunately,  she  was  by  nature  framed  to  pre- 
fer the  zii-zag  to  the  straight  line;  added  to  which,  she  was  imperious, 
and  could  not  bear  a  rival  near  her  throne.  From  the  first,  therefore,  she 
exerted  herself  to  secure  her  empire  over  Cornelia  ;  she  spared  neither  flat- 
tery nor  artifice  ;  and,  well  acquainted  as  she  was  with  every  habit  and  turn 
of  her  daughter's  mind,  her  task  was  comparatively  easy. 

The  fair  girl  had  been  brought  up  (ah  !  how  different  from  the  sentiments 
which  Lodore  had  thought  to  find  the  natural  inheritance  of  the  mountain 
child  I)  to  view  society  as  the  glass  by  which  she  was  to  set  her  feelings  and 
to  which  to  adapt  her  conduct.  She  was  ignorant,  accustomed  to  the  most 
frivolous  employments,  shrinking  from  any  mental  exercise,  so  that,  although 
her  natural  abilities  were  great,  they  lay  dormant,  producing  neither  bud 
nor  blossom,  u  dess  such  might  be  called  the  elegance  of  her  appearance, 
and  the  charm  of  the  softest  and  most  ingenuous  manners  in  the  world. 


$2  LODORE. 

When  ner  husband  would  have  educated  her  mind,  and  withdrawn  he? 
from  the  dangers  of  dissipation,  she  looked  on  his  conduct  as  tyrannical  and 
eruel.  She  retreated  from  his  manly  guidance,  to  the  pernicious  guardian- 
ship of  Lady  Santerre,  and  she  sheltered  herself  at  her  side,  from  any  elfort 
Lodore  might  make  for  her  improvement. 

Those  who  have  never  experienced  a  situation  of  this  kind,  cannot  under- 
stand it ;  the  details  appear  trivial :  there  seems  wanting  but  one  effort  to 
push  away  the  flimsy  web,  which,  after  all,  is  rather  an  imaginary  than  real 
bondage.  But  the  slightest  description  will  bring  it  home  to  those  who  have 
known  it,  and  groaned  beneath  a  despotism  the  more  intolerable,  as  it  could 
be  less  defined.  Lord  Lodore  found  that  he  had  no  home,  no  dear  single- 
hearted  bosom  where  he  could  find  sympathy,  and  to  which  to  impart  pleas- 
ure. When  he  entered  his  drawing-room'  with  gayety  of  spirit  to  impart 
some  agreeable  tidings,  to  ask  his  wife's  advice,  or  to  propose  some  plan,,. 
Lady  Santerre  was  ever  by  her  side,  with  her  hard  features  and  canting 
falsetto  voice,  checking  at  once  the  kindling  kindness  of  his  soul,  and  he  felt 
that- all  that  he  should  say  would  be  turned  from  its  right  road,  by  some 
insidious-  remark,  and  the  words  he  was  about  to  speak  died  upon  his  lipsi. 
When  he  looked  forward  through ,the  day,  and  would  have  given  the  world 
to  have  had  his  wife  to  himself,  and  to  have  sought,  in  some  drive  or  excur- 
sion, for  the  pleasant  unreserved  converse  he  sighed  far,  Lady  Santerre 
must  be  consulted  ;  and  though  she  never  opposed  him,  she  always  carried 
her  point  in  opposition  to  his.  His  wishes  were  made  light  of,  and  he  was 
left  to  amuse  himself,  and  to  know  that  his  wife  was  imbibing  the  lessons  of 
one,  whom  he  had  learned  to  despise  and  hate. 

Lord  Lodore  cherished  an  ideal  of  what  he  thought  a  woman  ought  to  be  * 
but  he  had  no  lofty  opinion  of  woman  as  he  had  usually  found  her.  He 
had  believed  that  the  germ  of  all  the  excellencies  which  he  esteemed  was 
to  be  found  in  Cornelia,  and  he  found  himself  mistaken.  He  had  expected' 
to  find  truth,  clearness  of  spirit,  and  complying  gentleness,  the  adorning 
qualities  of  the  unsophisticated  girl,  and  he  found  her  the  willing  disciple  of 
one  whose  selfish  and  artful  character  was  in  direct  contradiction  to  his  own. 
Once  or  twice  at  the  beginning,  he  had  attempted  to  withdraw  his  wife  from 
this  sinister  influence,  but  Lady  Lodore  highly  resented  any  effort  of  this 
kind,  and  saw  in  it  an  endeavour  to  make  her  neglect  her  first  and  dearest 
duties.  Lodore,  angry  that  the  wishes  of  another  should  be  preferred  to  his,. 
drew  back  with  disappointed  pride ;  he  disdained  to  enforce  by  authority, 
that  which  he  thought  ought  to  be  yielded  to  love.  The  bitter  sense  of 
wounded  affections  was  not  to  be  appeased  by  knowing  that,  if  he  chose,  he 
could  command  that,  which  was  worthless  in  his  eyes^  except  as  a  voluntary 
gift. 

And  here  bis  error  began  ;  he  had  married  one  so  young,  that  her  educa- 
tion, even  if  its  foundation  had  been  good,  required  finishing,  and  who,  as 
it  was,  had  every  thing  to  learn.  During  the  days  of  courtship  he  had  looked 
forward  with  pleasure  to  playing  the  tutor  to  his  fair  mistress:  but  a  tutor 
can  do  nothing  without  authority,  either  open  or  concealed —  a  tutor  must 
sacrifice  his  own  pursuits  and  immediate  pleasures,  to  study  and  adapi: 
himself  to  the  disposition  of  his  pupil. 

As  has  been  said  of  those  who  would  acquire  power  in  the  state  —  they 
must  in  some  degree  follow,  if  they  would  lead,  and  it  is  by  adapting  them- 
selves to  the  humour  of  those  they  would  command,  that  they  establish  the 
law  of  their  own  will,  or  of  an  apparent  necessity.  But  Lodore  un  dei  stood 
nothing  of  all  this.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  be  managed  by  his  mis- 
tress ;  he  had  been  yie^ing,  but  it  was  because  she  contrived  to  make  his 
will  her  own  ;  otherwise  he  was  imperious  :  opposition  startled  and  dis- 
concerted him,  and  he  saw  heartlessness  in  the  want  of  accommodation 
and  compliance  he  met  at  home.    He  had  expected  from  Cornelia  a  gk?3 


LODORE.  83 

clinging  fondness,  but  that  was  given  to  her  mother  :  nor  did  she  feel  the 
womanly  tenderness,  which  sees  in  her  husband  the  safeguard  from  the  ills 
of  life,  th?  shield  to  stand  between  her  and  the  world,  to  ward  off  its  cruelties  ; 
a  shelter  from  adversity,  a  refuse  when  tempests  were  abroad.  How  could 
she  feel  this,  who,  proud  in  youth  and  triumphant  beauty,  knew  nothing  of. 
and  disbelieved  the  tales  which  sages  and  old  women  tell  of  the  perils  of 
life  ?  The  wo  dd  looked  to  her  a  velvet  strewn  walk,  canopied  from  every 
storm  —  her  husband  alone,  who  endeavoured  to  reveal  the  reality  of  things 
to  her,  and  to  disturb  her  visions  was  the  source  of  any  sorrow  or  discom- 
fort. She  was  buoyed  up  by  the  supercilious  arrogance  of  youth  ;  and 
while  inexperience  rendered  her  incapable  of  entering  into  the  feelings  of 
her  husband,  she  displayed  towards  him  none  of  that  deference,  and  yielding 
submission,  which  might  reasonably  have  been  expected  from  her  youth, 
but  that  her  mother  was  there  to  claim  them  for  herself,  and  to  inculcate, 
as  far  as  she  could,  that  while  she  was  her  natural  friend,  Lodore  was  her 
natural  enemy. 

He,  with  strong  pride  and  crushed  affections,  gave  himself  up  for  a  dis- 
appointed man.  He  disdained  to  struggle  with  the  sinister  influence  of  his 
mother-in-law  ;  he  did  not  endeavour  to  discipline  and  invigorate  the  facile 
disposition  of  his  bride.  He  had  exnected  devotion,  attention,  love  ;  and 
he  scorned  to  complain  or  to  war  against  the  estrangement  that  grew  up 
between  them.  If  at  any  time  he  was  impelled  by  an  overflowing  heart  to 
seek  his  fair  wife's  side,  the  eternal  presence  of  Lady  Santerre  chilled  him 
ax  once  ;  and  to  withdraw  her  from  this  was  a  task  difficult  indeed  to  one 
who  could  not  forgive  the  comper-  on  admitted  between  them.  A.t  first  he 
made  one  or  two  endeavou'-s  to  separate  them  ,  but  the  reception  his  efforts 
met  with  galled  his  haughty  soul ;  and  while  he  cherished  a  deep  and 
passionate  hatred  for  the  cause,  he  grew  to  desoise  the  victim  of  her  arts. 
He  thought  that  he  perceived  duplicity,  low-lhou^hted  pride,  and  coldness 
of  heart,  the  native  growth  of  the  daughteT  of  such  a  mother.  He  yielded, 
her  up  at  once  to  the  world  and  her  parent,  and  resolved  to  seek,  not  happi- 
ness, but  occupation  elsewhere.  He  felt  the  wound  deeply,  but  he  sought 
no  cure  ;  and  pride  taught  him  to  mask  his  soreness  of  spirit  by  a  stu.  ;ed 
mildness  of  manner,  which,  beino  joined  to  cold  indifference,  and  frequent 
contradiction,  soon  beq;ot  a  considerable  degree  of  resentment,  and  even 
dislike  on  her  part.  Her  mother's  well-applied  flatteries  and  the  adulation 
of  her  friends  were  contrasted  with  his  half-disguised  contempt.  The 
system  of  society  tended  to  increase  their  mutual  estrangement.  She 
embarked  at  once  on  the  stream  of  fashion  ;  and  her  whole  time  was  given 
up  to  the  engagements  and  amusements  that  flowed  in  on  heron  all  sides  ; 
while  he  —  one  other  regret  added  to  many  previous  ones  —  one  other  dis- 
appointment in  addition  to  those  which  already  corroded  his  heart — bade 
adifm  to  every  hope  of  dom°stic  felicitv,  and  tried  to  create  new  interests 
for  himself,  seeking,  in  public  affairs,  for  food  for  a  mind  eager  for  excite- 
ment. < 


$4  LODORE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


What  are  fears,  but  voices  airy 
Whisp'ring  harm,  where  harm  is  not 
And  deluding  the  unwary, 
Till  the  fatal  bolt  is  shot  ? 

Wordsworth. 

Lord  Lodore  was  disgusted  at  the  very  threshold  of  his  new  purpose. 
His  long  residence  abroad  prevented  his  ever  acquiring  the  habit  of  public 
speaking ;  nor  had  he  the  respect  for  human  nature,  nor  the  enthusiasm  for 
a  party  or  a  cause,  which  is  necessary  for  one  who  would  make  a  figure  as 
a  statesman.  His  sensitive  disposition,  his  pride,  which,  when  excited, 
verged  into  arrogance  ;  his  uncompromising  integrity,  his  disdain  of  most 
of  his  associates,  his  incapacity  of  yielding  obedience,  rendered  his  short 
political  career  one  of  struggle  and  mortification.  "  And  this  is  life  !"  he 
6aid  ;  "  abroad,  to  mingle  with  the  senseless  and  the  vulgar  ;  and  at  home, 
to  find  a  —  wife  who  prefers  the  admiration  of  fools  to  the  love  of  an  honest 
heart !" 

Within  a  year  after  her  marriage,  Lady  Lodore  gave  birth  to  a  daughter. 
This  circumstance,  which  naturally  tends  to  draw  the  parents  nearer,  un- 
fortunately in  this  instance  set  them  lafther  apart.  Lady  Santerre  had 
been  near,  with  so  many  restrictions  ana  so  much  interference,  which  though 
probably  necessary,  considering  Cornelia's  extreme  youth,  yet  seemed 
vexatious  and  impertinent  to  Lodore.  All  things  appeared  to  be  permitted, 
except  those  which  he  proposed.  A  drive,  a  ride,  even  a  walk  with  him, 
was  to  be  considered  fatal ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  Lady  Lodore  was 
spending  whole  nights  in  heated  rooms,  and  even  dancing.  Her  confine- 
ment was  followed  by  a  long  illness  ;  the  child  was  nursed  by  a  stranger, 
sp  'luded  in  a  distant  part  of  the  house  ;  and  during  her  slow  recovery,  the 
yonn  j  mother  seemed  scarcely  to  remember  that  it  existed.  The  love  for 
children  is  a  passion  often  developed  most  fully  in  the  second  stage  of  life. 
Lodore  idolized  his  little  offspring,  and  felt  hurt  and  angry  when  his  wife, 
after  it  had  been  in  her  room  a  minute  or  two,  on  the  first  approach  it  made 
to  a  squall,  ordered  it  to  be  taken  aWay.  At  the  time,  in  truth,  she  was 
reduced  To  the  lowest  ebb  of  weakness  ;  but  Lodore,  as  men  are  apt  to  do, 
was  slow  to  discern  her  physical  suffering,  while  his  cheeks  burned 
with  indignation,  as  she  peevishly  repeated  the  command  that  his  child 
should  go. 

When  she  grew  better  this  was  not  mended.  She  was  ordered  into  the 
country  for  air,  at  a  time  when  the  little  girl  was  suffering  from  some  in- 
fantine disorder,  and  could  not  be  moved.  It  was  left  with  its  nurses,  but 
Lodore  remained  also,  and  rather  suffered  his  wife  to  travel  without  him, 
so  to  demonstrate  openly,  that  he  thought  her  treatment  of  her  baby  un- 
motherly  ;  not  that  he  expressed  this  sentiment,  nor  did  Lady  Lodore  guess 
at  it ;  she  saw  only  his  usual  spirit  of  contradiction  and  neglect,  in  his  de- 
sertion of  her  at  this  period. 

The  mother  pressed  with  careless  lips  the  downy  cheek^f  the  little 
cherub,  and  departed  •  while  Lodore  passed  most  of  his  time  u£  the  child's 
apartment,  or,  turning  his  library  into  a -nursery,  it  was  continually  with 
him  there.  "  Here,"  he  thought,  "  I  have  something  to  live  for,  something 
to  love.  And  even  though  I  am  not  loved  in  return,  my  heart's  sacrifice 
will  not  be  repaid  with  insolence  and  contempt."  But  when  the  infant 
began  to  show  tokens  of  recognition  and  affection,  when  it  smiled  and 


LODORE.  35 

stretched  out  its  little  hands  on  seeing  him,  and  crowed  with  innocent 

f Measure  ;  and  still  more,  when  the  lisped  paternal  name  fell  from  its  roseate 
ips — the  father  repeated  more  emphatically,  "  Here  is  something  that 
makes  it  worth  while  to  have  been  born  —  to  live !"  An  illness  of  the  child 
overwhelmed  him  with  anxiety  and  despair.  She  recovered';  and  he 
thanked  God,  with  a  lively  emotion  of  joy,  to  which  he  had  long  been  a 
stranger. 

His  affection  for  his  child  augmented  the  annoyance  which  he  derived 
from  his  domestic  circle.  He  had  been  hitherto  sullenly  yielding  on  any 
contest ;  but  whatever  whim  or  whatever  plan  he  formed  with  regard  to 
his  daughter,  he  abided  by  unmoved,  and  took  pleasure  in  manifesting  his 
partiality  for  her.  Lodore  was  by  nature  a  man  of  violent  and  dangerous 
passions,  added  to  which,  his  temper  was  susceptible  to  irritability.  He 
disdained  to  cope  with  the  undue  influence  exercised  by  Lady  Santerre 
over  his  wife.  He  beheld  in  the  latter,  a  frivolous,  childish  puppet,  en- 
dowed with  the  usual  feminine  infirmities  — 

"  The  love  of  pleasure,  and  the  love  of^sway ;" 

and  destitute  of  that  tact  and  tenderness  of  nature  which  should  teach  her 
where  to  yield  and  how  to  reign.  He  left  her  therefore  to  her  own  devices, 
resolved  only  that  he  would  not  give  up  a  single  point  relative  to  his  child, 
and  consequently,  according  to  the  weakness  of  human  nature,  ever  ready 
to  find  fault  with  and  prohibit  all  her  wishes  on  the  subject. 

Cornelia,  accustomed  to  be  guided  by  her  mother's  watchful  artifices, 
and  to  submit  to  a  tyranri}  which  assumed  the  guise  of  servitude,  felt  on.y 
with  the  feelings  implanted  by  ;-er  parent.  She  was  hot,  like  Lady  San- 
terre, heartless  ;  but  cherished  pride,  the  effect  of  perpetual  misrepresenta- 
tion, painted  her  as  such.  She  looked  on  her  husband  as  a  man  essentially 
selfish  —  one  who,  worn  out  by  passion,  had  married  her  to  beguile  ils 
hours  during  a  visitation  of  ennui,  and  incapable  of  the  softness  of  love  or 
the  kindness  of  friendship.  On  occasion  of  his  new  conduct  with  regard 
to  her  child,  her  haughty  soul  was  in  arms  against  him,  and  something 
almost  akin  to  hatred  sprung  up  within  her.  She  resented  his  interference  ; 
she  believed  that  his  object  was  to  deprive  her  of  the  consolation  of  her 
daughter's  love,  and  that  his  chief  aim  was  to  annoy  and  insult  her.  She 
was  jealous  of  her  daughter  with  her  husband,  of  her  husband  with  her 
daughter.  If  by  some  chance  a  word  or  look  passed  that  might  have  soft- 
ened the  mutual  sentiment  of  distrust,  the  evil  genius  of  the  scene  was  there 
to  freeze  again  the  genial  current ;  and  any  approach  to  kindness,  by  an 
inexplicable  but  certain  result,  only  tended  to  place  them  farther  apart  than 
before. 

Three  winters  had  passed  since  their  marriage,  and  the  third  spring  was 
merging  into  summer,  while  they  continued  in  this  state  of  warlike  neu- 
trality. Any  slight  incident  might  have  destroyed  the  fictitious  barriers 
erected  by  ill  will  and  guile  between  them ;  or,  so  precarious  was  their 
state,  any  new  event  might  change  petty  disagreements  into  violent  resent 
ment,  and  prevent  their  ever  entertaining  towards  each  other  those  feelings 
which,  but  for  one  fatal  influence,  would  naturally  have  had  root  between 
them.  The  third  summer  was  come.  They  were  spending  the  com- 
mencement of  it  in  London,  when  circumstances  occurred,  unanticipated 
by  either,  which  changed  materially  the  course  of  their  domestic  arrange- 
ments. 

Lord  Lodore  returned  home  one  evening  at  a  little  after  eleven,  from  a 
dinner-party,  and  found,  as  usual,  his  drawing-room  deserted  — Lady  Lo- 
dore had  gone  to  a  ball.  He  had  returned  in  that  humour  to  moralize, 
which  we  so  often  bring  from  society  into  solitude  ;  and  he  paced  the  empty 


$$  LODORE. 

apartments  with  impatient  step.  "  Home  !  —  yes,  this  is  my  home  I  I  had 
hoped  that  gentle  peace  and  smiling  love  would  be  its  inmates,  that  return- 
in  a-  as  now,  from  those  who  excite  my  spleen  and  contempt,  one  eye  would 
have  lighted  up  to  welcome  me.  a  dear  voice  have  thanked  me  for  my  return. 
Homef  a  Tartar  beneath  his  tent  —  a  wild  Indian  in  his  hut,  may  speak 
of  hone —  I  have  none.  Where  shall  I  spend  the  rest  of  this  dull,  deserted 
even  n  j?" — for  it  may  be  supposed  that,  sharing  London  habits,  eleven 
o'clock  was  to  him  but  an  evening  hour. 

He  went  into  his  dressing-room,  and  casting  his  eyes  on  the  table,  a  re- 
vulsion came  over  him  — a  sudden  shock  — for  there  lay  a  vision  which  made 
his  breath  come  thick,  and  caused  the  blood  to  recede  to  his  heart  —  a  like 
vision  has  had  the  same  effect  on  many,  though  it  took  but  the  unobtrusive 
form  of  a  little  note  —  a  note,  whose  fold,  whose  seal,  whose  superscription, 
were  all  once  so  familiar,  and  now  so  strange.  Time  sensibly  rolled  back  ; 
each  event  of  the  last  few  years  was  broken  off,  as  it  were,,  from  his  life, 
leaving  it  as  it  had  been  ten  years  ago.  He  seized  the  note,  and  then  threw 
it  from  him.  "  It  is  a  mere  mistake  "  he  said  aloud,  while  he  felt,  even  to 
the  marrow  of  his  bones*  the  thrill  and  shudder  as  of  an  occurrence  beyond 
the  bounds  of  nature.  Yet  still  the  note  lay  there,  and  half  as  if  to  unde- 
ceive himself,  and  to  set  witchcraft  at  nought,  he  again  took  it  up — this 
time  in  a  le-sv  agitated  mood,  so  that  when  the  well-known  impression 
of  a  little  foreign  coronet  on  the  seal  met  his  eye,  he  became  aware  that 
however  unexpected  such  a  sight  might  be,  it  was  the  moral  course  of 
things,  and  he  hastily  tore  open  the  epistle :  it  was  written  in  French,  and 
was  very  concise.  "  I  arrived  in  town  last  night,"  the  writer  said  ;  "  I  and 
my  son  are  about  to  join  my  husband  in  Paris.  1  hear  that  you  are  married  ; 
I  hope  to  see  you  and  your  lady  before  I  leave  London." 

After  reading  these  few  lines,  Lord  Lodore  remained  for  a  considerable 
time  lost  in  thought.  He  tried  to  consider  what  he  should  do,  but  his  ideas 
wandered,  as  they  sadly  traced  the  past,  and  pictured  to  him  the  present. 
Never  did  life  appear  so  vain,  so  contemptible,  so  odious  a  thing  as  now, 
that  he  was  reminded  of  the  passions  and  sufferings  of  former  days,  which, 
strewed  at  his  feet  like  broken  glass,  might  still  wound  him,  though  their 
charm  and  their  delight  could  never  be  renewed.  He  did  not  go  out  that 
night ;  indeed  it  seemed  as  if  but  a  minute  had  passed,  when,  lo !  morning 
was  pouring  her  golden  summer  beams  into  his  room  —  when  Lady  Lo- 
dore's  carriage  drove  up  ;  and  early  sounds  in  the  streets  told  him  that 
night  was  gone  and  the  morrow  come. 

That  same  day  Lord  Lodore  requested  Cornelia  to  call  with  him  on  a* 
Polish  lady  of  rank,  with  whom  he  had  formerly  been  acquainted,  to  whom 
he  was  under  obligations.  They  went.  And  what  Lodore  felt  when  he 
stood  with  his  lovely  wife  before  her,  who  for  many  by-gone  years  had  com- 
manded his  fate,  had  wound  him  to  her  will,  through  the  force  of  love  and 
woman's  wiles  —  who  he  knew  could  read  every  latent  sentiment  of  his 
soui,  and  yet  towards  whom  he  was  resolved  now,  and  for  ever  in  future, 
to  adopt  the  reserved  manners  of  a  mere  acquaintance  —  what  of  tremor  or 
pain  all  this  brought  to  Lodore's  bosom,  was  veiled,  at  least  beyond  Cor- 
nelia's penetration,  who  seldom  truly  observed  him,  and  who  was  now  oc- 
cupied by  her  new  acquaintance. 

The  lady  had  passed  the  bloom  of  youth,  and  even  mid  life  ;  she  was 
verging  on  fifty,  but  she  had  every  appearance  of  having  been  transcend- 
ently  beautiful.  Her  dark  full  oriental  eyes  still  gleamed  from  beneath  her 
finely  arched  brows,  and  her  black  hair,  untinged  by  any  grizzly  change, 
was  gathered  round  her  head  in  such  tresses  as  bespoke  an  admirable  pro- 
fusion. Her  person  was  tall  and  commanding;  her  manners  were  singu- 
lar, fos  she  mingled  so  strangely  stateliness  and  affability,  disdain  ana 
sweetness,  that  she  seemed  like  a  princess  dispensing  the  favour  of  her 


LODORE.  S7 

smile,  or  the  terror  of  her  frown  on  her  submissive  subjects ;  her  sweetest 
smiles  were  for  Cornelia,  who  yet  turned  from  her  to  another  object,  who 
attracted  her  more  peculiar  attention.  It  was  her  son  ;  a  youth  inheriting 
all  his  mother's  beauty,  added  to  the  fascination  of  early  manhood,  and  a 
frank  and  ingenuous  address,  which  his  parent  could  never  have  possessed. 

The  party  separated,  apparently  wrell  pleased  with  each  other.  Lady 
Lodore  offered  her  services,  which  were  frankly  accepted  ;  and  after  an 
hour  spent  together,  they  appointed  to  meet  again  the  next  day,  when  the 
ladies  should  drive  out  together  to  shop  and  see  sights. 

They  became  not  exactly  intimate,  yet  upon  familiar  terms.  There  was 
U  dignity  and  even  a  constraint  in  the  Countess  Lyzinski's  manner  that 
*  as  a  bar  to  cordiality  ;  but  they  met  daily,  and  Lady  Lodore  introduced 
her  new  friend  everywhere.  The  countess  said  that  motives  of  curiosity 
had  induced  her  to  take  this  country  in  her  way  to  Paris.  Her  wealth  was 
immense,  and  her  rank  among  the  first  in  her  own  country.  The  Russian 
ambassador  treated  her  with  distinction,  so  that  she  gained  facile  and  agree- 
able entrance  into  the  highest  society.  The  young  Count  Casimir  was 
a  universal  favourite,  but  his  dearest  pleasure  was  to  attend  upon  Lady 
Lodore,  who  readily  offered  to  school  him  on  his  entrance  into  the  English 
world.  They  were  pretty  exactly  the  same  age  ;  Casimir  was  somewhat 
the  junior,  yet  he  looked  the  elder,  while  the  lady,  accustomed  to  greater 
independence,  took  the  lead  in  their  intercourse,  and  acted  the  monitress 
to  her  docile  scholar. 

Lord  Lodore  looked  on,  or  took  a  part,  in  what  was  passing  around 
him,  with  a  caprice  perfectly  unintelligible.  With  the  countess  he  was 
always  gentle  and  obliging,  but  reserved ;  while  she  treated  him  with  a 
coldness  resembling  disdain,  yet  whose  chiefest  demonstration  was  silence. 
Lodore  never  altered  towards  her ;  it  was  with  regard  to  her  son  that  he 
displayed  his  susceptible  temper.  He  took  pains  to  procure  for  him  every 
proper  acquaintance  ;  he  was  forward  in  directing  him  ;  he  watched  over 
his  mode  of  passing  his  time,  he  appeared  to  be  interested  in  every  thing 
he  did,  and  yet  to  hate  him.  His  demeanour  towards  him  was  morose, 
almost  insulting.  Lodore,  usually  so  forbearing  and  courteous,  would 
contradict  and  silence  him,  as  if  he  had  been  a  child  or  a  menial.  It  re- 
quired all  Casimir's  deference  for  one  considerably  his  senior,  to  prevent 
him  from  resenting  openly  this  style  of  treatment ;  it  required  all  the  fas- 
cination of  Lady  Lodore  to  persuade  him  to  encounter  it  a  secona  time. 
Once  he  had  complained  to  her,  and  she  remonstrated  with  her  husband. 
His  answer  was  to  reprimand  her  for  listening  to  the  impertinence  of  the 
stripling.  She  coloured  angrily,  but  did  not  reply.  Cold  and  polite  to  each 
other,  the  noble  pair  were  not  in  the  habit  of  disputing.  Lady  Santerre 
guarded  against  that.  Any  thing  as  familiar  as  a  quarrel  might  have  pro- 
duced a  reconciliation,  and  with  that  a  better  understanding  of  each  other's 
real  disposition.  The  disdain  that  rose  in  Gornelia's  bosom  on  this  taunt, 
fostered  by  conscious  innocence,  and  a  sense  of  injustice,  displayed  itself  in 
a  scornful  smile,  and  by  an  augmentation  of  kindness  towards  Casimir.  He 
was  now  almost  domesticated  at  her  house ;  he  attended  her  in  the  morning, 
hovered  round  her  during  the  evening  ;  and  she,  given  up  to  the  desire  of 
pleasing,  did  not  regard,  did  not  even  see,  the  painful  earnestness  with  which 
Lord  Lodor^wg|  rded  them.  His  apparent  jealousy,  if  she  at  all  remarked 
it,  was  but  "a  rm  of  selfishness,  to  which  she  was  not  disposed  to  give 

quarter.  1  Concerned  spectator  might  have  started  to  observe  how, 

from  an  <S|  Rorner  of  the  room,  Lodore  watched  every  step  they  took, 
every  change  of  expression  of  face  during  their  conversation  ;  and  then  ap- 
proaching and  interrupting  them,  endeavoured  to  carry  Count  Casimir  away 
with  him ;  and  when  thwarted  in  this,  dart  glances  of  such  indignation  on 
the  youth,  and  of  scorn  upon  his  wife,  as  might  have  awoke  a  sense  of  danger, 
32—4 


38  LODORE, 

had  either  chanced  to  see  the  fierce,  lightning-like  passions,  written  in  those 
moments  on  his  countenance,  as  letters  of  fire  and  menace  traced  upon  the 
prophetic  wall. 

The  countess  appeared  to  observe  him  indeed ;  and  sometimes  it  seemed 
as  if  she  regarded  the  angry  workings  of  his  heart  with  malicious  pleasure. 
Once  or  twice  she  had  drawn  near,  and  said  a  few  words  in  her  native 
language,  on  which  he  endeavoured  to  stifle  each  appearance  of  passion, 
answering  with  a  smile,  in  a  low  calm  voice,  and  retiring,  left,  as  it  were, 
the  field  to  her.  Lady  Santerre  also  had  remarked  his  glances  of  suspi- 
cion or  fury  ;  they  were  interpreted  into  new  sins  against  her  daughter,  and 
made  with  her.  the  subject  of  ridicule  or  bitter  reproach. 

Lord  Lodore  was  entirely  alone.  To  no  one  human  being  could  he 
speak  a  word  that  in  the  least  expressed  the  violence  of  his  feelings.  Per- 
haps the  only  person  with  whom  he  felt  the  least  inclined  to  overflow  in 
confidence,  was  the  Countess  Lyzinski.  But  he  feared  her  :  he  feared  the 
knowledge  she  possessed  of  his  character,  and  the  power  she  had  once 
exercised  to  rule  him  absolutely  ;  the  barrier  between  them  must  be  insu- 
perable, or  the  worst  results  would  follow :  he  redoubled  his  own  cautious 
reserve,  and  bore  patiently  the  proud  contempt  which  she  exhibited,  resolved 
not  to  yield  one  inch  in  the  war  he  waged  with  his  own  heart,  with  regard 
to  her.  But  he  was  alone,  and  the  solitude  of  sympathy  in  which  he  lived, 
gave  force  and  keeness  to  all  his  feelings.  Had  they  evaporated  in  words, 
half  their  power  to  wound  had  been  lost ;  as  it  was,  there  was  danger  in 
his  meditations,  and  each  one  in  collision  with  him  had  occasion  to  dread 
that  any  sudden  overflow  of  stormy  rage  would  be  the  more  violent  for 
having  been  repressed  so  long. 

One  day  the  whole  party,  with  the  exception  of  Lady  Santerre,  dined  at 
the  house  of  the  Russian  ambassador.  As  Lord  and  Lady  Lodore  pro- 
ceeded towards  their  destination,  he,  with  pointed  sarcasm  of  manner,  re- 
quested her  to  be  less  marked  in  her  attentions  to  Count  Casimir.  The 
unfounded  suspicions  of  a  lover  may  please  as  a  proof  of  love,  but  those  of  a 
husband,  who  thus  claims  affections  which  he  has  ceased  to  endeavour  to  win, 
are  never  received  except  as  an  impertinence  and  an  insult.  Those  of  Lord 
Lodore  appeared  to  his  haughty  wife  but  a  new  form  of  cold-hearted  des- 
potism, checking  her  pleasures  whencesoever  they  might  arise.  She  replied 
by  a  bitter  smile,  and  afterwards  still  more  insultingly,  by  the  display  of  kind- 
ness and  partiality  towards  the  object  of  her  husband's  dislike.  Her  complete 
sense  of  innocence,  roused  to  indignation,  by  the  injury  she  deemed  offered 
to  it,  led  her  thus  to  sport  with  feelings,  which,  had  she  deigned  to  remark, 
she  might  have  seen  working  with  volcano-power  in  the  breast  of  Lodore. 

The  ladies  retired  after  dinner.  They  gathered  together  in  groups  in 
the  drawing-room,  while  Lady  Lodore,  strange  to  say,  eat  apart  from  all. 
She  placed  herself  on  a  distant  sofa,  apparently  occupied  by  examining 
vauous  specimens  of  bijouterie,  nic-nacs  of  all  kinds,  which  she  took  up 
one  after  the  other,  from  the  table  near  her.  One  hand  shaded  her  eyes  a& 
she  continued  thus  to  amuse  herself.  She  was  not  apt  to  be  so  abstracted  ; 
as  noM .  that  intent  on  self-examination,  or  self-reproach,  or  on  thoughts 
that  wa.idered  to  another,  she  forgot  where  she  was,  and  by  whom  sur- 
rounded. She  did  not  observe  the  early  entrance  of  several  gentlemen 
from  the  dining-room,  nor  remark  a  kind  of  embarrassment  which  sat  upon 
their  features,  spreading  a  sort  of  uncomfortable  wonder  among  the  guests. 
Tk-5  first  words  that  roused  her,  were  addressed  to  her  by  her  husband  : 
"  Your  carriage  waits,  Corrifelia  ;  will  you  come  ?" 

"  So  early  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  particularly  wish  it,"  he  replied. 

"You  can  go,  and  send  them  back  for  me — and  yet  it  is  not  worth 
while,  we  shall  see  most  of  the  people  here  at  Lady  C 's  to  night." 


LODORE.  39 

She  glanced  round  the  room,  Casimir  was  not  there  ;  as  she  passed  the 
Countess  Lyzinski,  she  was  about  to  ask  her  whether  they  should  meet 
again  that  evening,  when  she  caught  the  lady's  eye  fixed  on  her  husband, 
meeting  and  returning  a  look  of  his.  Alarm  and  disdain  were  painted  on 
her  face,  and  added  to  this,  a  trace  of  feeling  so  peculiar,  so  full  of  mutual 
understanding,  that  Lady  Lodore  was  filled  with  no  agreeable  emotion  of 
surprise.  She  entered  the  carriage,  and  the  reiterated  "Home  !"  of  Lord 
Lodore  prevented  her  intended  directions.  Both  were  silent  during  their 
short  drive.  She  sat  absorbed  in  a  variety  of  thoughts,  not  one  of  which 
led  her  to  enter  into  conversation  with  her  companion  ;  they  w  ere  rather 
fixed  on  her  mother,  on  the  observations  she  should  make  to,  aiid  the  con- 
jectures she  should  share  with,  her.  She  became  anxious  to  reach  home, 
and  resolved  at  once  to  seek  Lady  Santerre's  advice  and  directions,  by 
which  to  regulate  her  conduct  on  this  occasion. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Who  then  to  frail  mortality  shall  trust, 
But  limns  the  water,  or  but  writes  in  dust. 

Bacon. 

They  arrived  in  Berkeley-square.  Lady  Lodore  alighted,  and  perceived 
with  something  of  a  beating  heart,  that  her  husband  followed  her,  as  she 
passed  on  to  the  inner  drawing-room.  Lady  Santerre  was  not  there. 
Taking  a  letter  from  the  table,  so  as  to  give  herself  the  appearance  of  an 
excuse  for  having  entered  a  room  she  was  about  immediately  to  quit,  she  was 
goin^,  when  Lodore,  who  stood  hesitating,  evidently  desirous  of  address- 
ing her,  and  yet  uncertain  how  to  begin,  stopped  her  by  speaking  her 
name.     "  Cornelia !" 

She  turned  --  she  was  annoyed ;  her  conscience  whispered  what  was  in 
all  probability  the  subject  to  which  her  attention  was  to  be  called.  Her 
meditations  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  Russian  ambassador  convinced 
her  that  she  had,  to  use  the  phrase  of  the  day,  flirted  too  much  with  Count 
Casimir,  and  she  bad  inwardly  resolved  to  do  so  no  more.  It  was  particu- 
larly disagreeable,  therefore,  that  her  husband  should  use  authority,  as  she 
feared  that  he  was  about  to  do,  and  exact  from  his  wife's  obedience  what  she 
was  willing  to  concede  to  her  own  sense  of  propriety.  She  was  resolved 
to  hear  as  little  as  she  could  on  the  subject,  and  stood  as  if  in  haste  to  go. 
His  faltering  voice  betrayed  how  much  he  felt,  and  once  or  twice  it  refused 
to  frame  the  words  he  desired  to  utter  :  how  different  was  their  import  from 
that  expected  by  his  impatient  auditress  ! 

"Cornelia,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  can  you  immediately,  and  at  once  — 
this  very  night  —  prepare  to  quit  England  ?" 

"  Gluit  England  !    Why  ?  —  whither  ?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  scarcely  know,"  replied  Lodore  ;  "  nor  is  it  of  the  slighest  import 
The  world  is  wide,  a  shelter,  a  refuge  can  be  purchased  anywhere  —  and 
that  is  all  I  seek^^^^„ 

The  gaming  1  >le,  the  turf,  loss  of  fortune,  were  the  ideas  naturally  con- 
veyed intoJi  's  mind  by  this  reply.  "  Is  all  —  every  thing  gone  —  lost  ?" 
she  asked.  < 

"  My  nj  (Pae  answered,  with  an  effort,  "  and  the  rest  is  of  little 

worth." 

He  paused,  and  then  continued  in  a  low  but  distinct  voice,  as  if  every  word 
cost  him  a  struggle,  yet  as  if  he  wished  each  one  to  be  fraught  with  its  en- 
tire meaning  to  his  hearer ;  "  I  cannot  well  explain  to  you  the  motives  of 


40  LODORE. 

my  sudden  determination,  nor  will  I  complain  of  the  part  you  have  had  in 
bringing  on  this  catastrophe.  It  is  over  now.  No  power  on  earth — no 
heavenly  power  —  can  erase  the  past,  nor  change  one  iota  of  what,  but  an 
hour  ago,  did  not  exist ;  but  which  now  exists,  altering  all  things  to  both 
of  us  for  over  ;  I  am  a  dishonoured  man.' 

"Speak  without  more  comment,"  cried  LadyLodore;  "  for  Heaven's 
sake  explain  —  I  must  know  what  you  mean." 

"  I  have  insulted  a  gentleman,"  replied  her  husband,  "  and  I  will  yield 
no  reparation.  I  have  disgraced  a  nobleman  by  a  blow,  and  I  will  offer 
no  apology,  could  one  be  accepted  —  and  it  could  not;  nor  will  I  give 
satisfaction." 

Lady  Lodore  remained  silent.  Her  thoughts  speedily  ran  over  the  dire 
objects  which  her  husband's  speech  presented.  A  quarrel  —  -  she  too  readily 
guessed  with  whom  —  a  blow,  a  duel ;  her  cheek  blanched  —  yet  not  so  ; 
for  Lodore  refused  to  fight.  In  spite  of  the  terror  with  which  an  antici- 
pated rencounter  had  filled  her,  the  idea  of  cowardice  in  her  husband,  or  the 
mere  accusation  of  it,  brought  the  colour  back  to  her  face.  She  felt  that 
her  heedlessness  had  given  use  to  all  this  harm  ;  but  again  she  felt  insulted 
that  doubts  of  her  sentiments  or  conduct  should  be  the  occasion  of  a  scene 
of  violence.  Both  remained  silent.  Lodore  stood  leaning  on  the  mantel- 
piece, his  cheek  flushed,  agitation  betraying  itself  in  each  gesture,  mixed 
with  a  resolve  to  command  himself.  Cornelia  had  advanced  from  the  door 
to  the  middle  of  the  room  ;  she  stood  irresolute,  too  indignant  and  too  fear- 
ful to  ask  farther  explanation,  yet  anxious  to  receive  it.  Still  he  hesitated. 
He  was  desirous  of  finding  some  form  of  words,  which  might  convey  all 
the  information  that  it  was  necessary  she  should  receive,  and  yet  conceal  all 
that  he  desired  should  remain  untold. . 

At  last  he  spoke.  "  It  is  unnecessary  to  allude  to  the  irretrievable  past. 
The  future  is  not  less  unalterable  for  me.  I  will  not  fight  with,  nor  apolo- 
gize to,  the  boy  I  have  insulted  ;  I  must  therefore  fly  —  rly  my  country  and 
the  face  of  man  ;  go-  where  the  name  of  Lodore  will  not  be  synonymous  with 
infamy  —  to  an  island  in  the  east  —  to  the  desert  wilds  of  America — it 
matters  not  whither.  The  simple  question  is,  whether  you  are  prepared  on 
a  sudden  to  accompany  me  ?  I  would  not  ask  this  of  your  generosity,  but 
that,  married  as  we  are,  our  destinies  ar.e  linked,  far  beyond  any  power 
we  possess  to  sunder  them.  Miserable  as  my  future  fortunes  will  be,  far 
other  than  those  which  I  invited  you  but  four  years  ago  to  share,  you  are 
better  off.incurring  the  worst  with  me,  than  you  could  be,  struggling  alone 
for  a  separate  existence." 

"  Pardon  me,  Lodore,"  said  Cornelia,  somewhat  subdued  by  the  magni- 
tude of  the  crisis  brought  about,  she  believed,  however  involuntarily,  by  her- 
self, and  by  the  sadness  that,  as  he  spoke,  filled  the  dark  eyes  of  her  com- 
panion with  an  expression  more  melancholy  than  tears  ;  "  pardon  me,  if  I 
seek  for  further  explanation.  Your  antagonist "  (they  neither  of  them  ven- 
tured  to  speak  a  name,  which  hung  on  the  lips  of  both)  "  is  a  mere  boy. 
Your  refusal  to  fight  with  him  results  of  course  from  this  consideration  ; 
while  angry,  and  if  I  must  allude  to  so  distasteful  a  falsehood,  while  unjust 
suspicions  prevent  your  making  him  fitting  and  most  due  concessions.  Were 
the  occasion  less  terrible,  I  might  disdain  to  assert  my  own  innocence  ;  but 
as  it  is,  I  do  most  solemnly  declare,  that  Count  Casimir " 

"  I  ask  no  question  on  that  point,  but  simply  wish  t<  v  whether  you 

will  accompany  me,"  interrupted  Lodore,  hastily  ;  "  the  a,m  sorry  for 

—  but  it  is  over.  You,  my  poor  girl,  though  in  somemeas  J  the  occasion, 
and  altogether  the  victim,  of  this  disaster,  can  exercise  noccmtrol  over  it. 
No  foreign  noble  would  accept  the  most  humiliating  submissions  as  com- 
pensation for  a  blow,  and  this  urchin  shall  never  receive  from  me  the  shadow 
of  any." 


LODORE.  42 

"  Is  there  no  other  way  ?"  asked  Cornelia. 

"Not  any,'  replied  Lodore,  while  his  agitation  increased,  and  his  voice 
grow  tremulous ;  "  No  consideration  on  earth  could  arm  me  against  his 
life.  One  other  mode  there  is.  I  might  present  myself  as  a  mark  for  his 
vengeance,  with  a  design  of  not  returning  his  fire,  hut  I  am  shut  out  even 
from  this  resource.  And  this,"  continued  Lodore,  losing,  as  he  spoke,  all 
self-command,  carried  away  by  the  ungovernable  passions  he  had  hitherto 
suppressed,  and  regardless,  as  he  strode  up  and  down  the  room,  of  Cornelia, 
who  half  terrified  had  sunk  into  a  chair  ;  "this —  these  are  the  result  of  my 
crimes  — such,  fromthrir  consequences,  I  tow  term,  what  by  courtesy,  I  have 
hitherto  named  my  follies  —  this  is  the  end  !  Bringing  into  frightful  collision 
those  who  are  bound  by  sacred  ties  —  changing  natural  love  into  unnatural, 
deep-rooted,  unspeakable  hate  —  arming  blood  against  kindred  blood  —  and 
making  the  innocent  a  parricide.  O  Theodora,  what  have  you  not  to  an- 
swer for  !"  --.-' 

Lady  Lodore  started.  The  image  he  presented  was  too  detestable.  She 
repressed  her-emotions,  and  assuming  that  air  of  disdain,  which  we  are  so 
apt -to  adopt  to  colour  more  painful  feelings,  she  said,  "This  sounds  very 
like  a  German  tragedy,  being  at  once  disagreeable  and  inexplicable." 

"  It  is  a  tragedy,"  he  replied  ;  "  a  tragedy  brought  now  to  its  last  dark 
catastrophe.  Casimir  is  my  son.  "We  may  neither  of  us  murder  the  other  ; 
nor  will  I,  if  again  brought  into  contact  with  him  do  other  than  chastise  the 
insolent  boy.     The  tiger  is  roused  within  me.     You  have  a  part  in  this." 

A  flash  of  anger  glanced  from  Cornelia's  eyes.  She  did  not  reply  — 
she  rose  —  she  quitted  the  room  —  she  passed  on  with  apparent  composure, 
till,  reaching  the  door  of  her  mother's  chamber,  she  rushed  impetuously  in. 
Overcome  with  indignation,  panting;,  choked,  she  threw  herself  into  her 
arms,  saying,  "Save  me!"     A  violent  fit  of  hysterics  followed. 

At  fi-st  Lady  L,odore  could  only  speak  of  the  injury  and  insult  she  had 
hsrs  'If- suffered  ;  and  Lady  Santerre,  who  by  no  means  wished  to  encour- 
age feelings  which  might  lead  to  violence  in  action,  tried  to  soothe  her  irri- 
tation. But  when  allusions  to  Lbdore's  intention  of  quitting  England  and 
the  civilized  world  for  ever,  mingled  with  Cornelia's  exclamations,  the  affair 
assumed  a  new  aspect  in  the  wary  lady's  eyes.  The  barbarity  of  such  an 
ilea  excited  her  utmost  resentment.  At  once  she  saw  the  full  extent  of  the 
intended  mischief,  and  the  risk  she  incurred  of  losing  the  reward  of  years  of 
suffering  and  labour.  When  an  instantaneous  departure  was  mentioned, 
an  endless,  desolate  journey,  which  it  was  doubtful  whether  she  should  be 
admitted  to  share,  to  be  commenced  that  very  night,  she  perceived  that  her 
m  msures  to  prevent  it  must  be  promptly  adopted.  The  chariot  was  still 
waiting  which  was  to  have  conveyed  Lord  and  Lady  Lodore  to  their  assem- 
bly ;  dressed  as  she  was  for  tnis,  without  preparation,  she  hurried  her 
daughter  into  the  carriage,  and  bade  the  coachman  drive  to  a  villa  they 
rented  at  Twickenham;  leaving,  in  explanation,  these  fewlines  addressed 
to  her  son-in-law. 

"The  scene  of  this  evening  has  had  an  alarming  effect  upcn  Cornelia. 
Time  will  soften  the  violence  of  her  feelings,  but  some  immediate  step 
was  necessary  to  save,  I  verily  believe,  her  life.  I  take  her  to  Twickenham, 
and  will  endeavoi  calm  her :  until  1  shall  have  in  some  measure  suc- 
ceeded, Ijj  had  better  not  follow  us  :  but  let  us  hear  from  you  ; 
for  althoM  r  attention  is  so  painfull  v  engrossed  by  my  daughter's  suffer- 
ings, I  arrflB  W on  your  account  also,  and  shall  continue  very  uneasy 
until  I  hean^^wyou. 
"  Friday  Evening." 

Lad)'  Santerre  and  her  daughter  reached  Twickenham.     Lady  Lodore 
4* 


42  LODORE. 

went  to  bed,  and,  assisted  by  a  strong  composing  draught,  administered  by 
ner  mother,  her  wrongs  and  her  anger  were  soon  hushed  in  profound  sleep. 
Night,  or  rather  morning,  was  far  spent  before  this  occurred,  so  that  it  was 
late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  ensuing  day  before  she  awoke,  and  recalled  to 
her  memory  the  various  conflicting  sentiments  which  had  occupied  her  pre- 
vious to  her  repose. 

During  the  morning,  Lady  Sahterre  had  despatched  a  servant  to  Berke- 
ley-square, to  summon  her  daughter's  peculiar  attendants.  He  now 
brought  back  the  intelligence  that  Lord  Lodore  had  departed  for  the  conti- 
nent^ about  three  hours  after  his  wife  had  quitted  his  house.  But  to  this  he 
added  tidings  of  another  circumstance,  for  which  both  ladies  were  totally 
unpret.  ared.  Cornelia  had  entered  the  carriage  the  preceding  night,  with- 
out spending  one  thought  on  the  sleeping  cherub  in  the  nursery.  "What 
was  her  surprise  and  indignation,  when  she  heard  that  her  child  and  its  at- 
tendant formed  a  part  of  his  lordship's  travelling  suite.  The  mother's  first 
impulse  was  to  follow  her  offspring ;  but  this  was  speedily  exchanged  for  a 
bitter  sense  of  wrong,  aversion  to  her  husband,  and  a  resolve  not  to  yield 
one  point,  in  the  open  warfare  thus  declared  by  him. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Amid  two  seas,  on  one  small  point  of  land, 
"Wearied,  uncertain,  and  amazed,  we  stand  ; 
On  either  side  our  thoughts  incessant  turn, 
Forward  we  dread,  and  looking  back  we  mourn. 

Prior. 

Accustomed  to  obey  the  more  obvious  laws  of  necessity,  those  whose 
situation  in  life  obliges  them  to  earn  their  daily  bread,  are  already  broken 
in  to  the  yoke  of  fate.  But  the  rich  and  great  are  vanquished  more  slowly. 
Their  time  is  their  own  ;  as  fancy  bids  them,  they  can  go  east,  west,  north, 
or  south  ;  they  wish,  and  accomplish  their  wishes ;  and  cloyed  by  the  too 
easy  attainment  of  the  necessaries,  and  even  of  the  pleasures  of  life,  they 
fly  to  the  tortures  of  passion,  and  to  the  labour  of  overcoming  the  obstacles 
that  stand  in  the  way  of  their  forbidden  desires,  as  resources  against  ennui 
and  satiety.  Reason  is  lost  in  the  appetite  for  excitement,  and  a  kind  of 
unnatural  pleasure  springs  from  their  severest  pains,  because  thus  alone 
are  they  roused  to  a  full  sense  of  their  faculties  ;  thus  alone  is  existence 
and  its  purposes  brought  home  to  them.       , 

In  the  midst  of  this  their  thoughtless  career,  the  eternal  law  which  links 
ill  to  ill  is  at  hand  to  rebuke  and  tame  the  rebel  spirit ;  and  such  a  tissue 
of  pain  and  evil  is  woven  from  their  holyday  pastime  as  checks  then  mid- 
course,  and  makes  them  feel  that  they  are  slaves.  The  young  are  scarcely 
aware  of  this  ;  they  delight  to  contend  with  Fate,  and  laugh  as  she  clanks 
their  chains.  But  there  is  a  period  —  sooner  or  later  comes  to  all  —  when 
the  links  envelop  them,  the  bolts  are  shot,  the  rivets  fixed,  the  iron  enters 
the  flesh,  the  soul  is  subdued,  and  they  fly  to  religion  or  proud  philosophy, 
to  seek  for  an  alleviation,  which  the  crushed  spirit  can  i  >nger  draw  from 
its  own  resources. 

This  hour  !  this  fatal  hour !  How  many  can  point  to  the  iadow  on  the 
dial,  and  say,  "  Then  it  was  that  I  felt  the  whole  weight  of  my  humanity, 
and  knew  myself  to  be  the  subject  of  an  unvanquishable  power  !"  This 
dark  moment  had  arrived  for  Lodore.  He  had  spent  his  youth  in  passion, 
and  exhausted  his  better  nature  in  a  struggle  for,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of, 
pleasure.     He  found  disappointment,  and  desired  change.     It  came  at  his 


I.ODORE.  43 

beck.  He  married.  He  was  not  satisfied  ;  but  still  he  felt  that  it  wag 
because  he  did  not  rouse  himself  that  the  bonds  sat  so  heavily  upon  him. 
He  was  enervated.  He  sickened  at  the  idea  of  the  struggle  it  would  require 
to  cast  off  his  fettPrs  and  he  preferred  adapting  his  nature  to  endure  their 
weight.  But  he  believed  that  it  was  only  because  he  did  not  raise  his  hand, 
nor  determine  on  one  true  effort,  that  he  was  thus  enslaved.  And  now  his 
hand  was  raised  —  the  effort  made;  but  no  change  ensued;  and  he  felt 
that  there  was  no  escape  from  the  inextricable  bonds  that  fastened  him  to 
misery. 

He  had  believed  that  he  did  right  in  introducing  his  wife  to  the  Countess 
Lvzinski.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  neglect  this  lady  ;  and  such  was  her 
rank,  that  any  affectation  of  a  separate  acquaintance  would  invite  those 
observations  which  he  deprecated.  It  was,  after  all,  matter  of  trivial  import 
that  he  should  be  the  person  to  bring  them  acquainted.  Moving  in  the 
same  circles,  they  must  meet  —  they  might  clash:  it  was  better  that  they 
should  be  on  friendly  terms.  He  did  not  foresee  the  intimacy  that  ensued  ; 
and,  still  less,  that  his  own  violent  passions  would  be  called  into  action. 
That  they  were  so,  was,  to  the  end,  a  mystery  even  to  himself.  He  no 
longer  loved  the  countess  ;  and,  in  the  solitude  of  his  chamber,  he  often  felt 
his  heart  yearn  towards  the  noble  youth,  her  son  ;  but  when  they  met  — 
when  Cornelia  spent  her  blandest  smiles  upon  him,  and  when  the  ex-? 
quisitely  beautiful  countenance  of  Casimir  became  lighted  up  with  gladness 
an'!  gratitude,  a  fire  of  rage  was  kindled  in  his  heart,  and  he  could  no  more 
command  himself  than  can  the  soaring  flames  of  a  conflagration  bend 
earthward.  He  felt  ashamed  ;  but  new  fury  sprung  from  this  very  sensa- 
tion. For  worlds  he  would  not  have  his  phrensy  Dried  into  by  another ; 
and  yet  he  had  no  power  to  control  its  manifestation.  His  wife  expostu- 
lated with  him  concerning  Casimir,  and  laughed  his  rebuke  to  scorn.  But 
she  did  not  read  the  tumult  of  unutterable  jealousy  and  hate  that  slept 
wtYm  his  breast,  like  an  earthquake  beneath  the  soil,  the  day  before  a  city 
falls. 

All  tended  to  add  fuel  to  this  unnatural  flame.  His  own  exertions  to 
sub  hie  its  fierceness  but  kindled  it  anew.  Often  he  entered  the  same  room 
with  the  young  count,  believing  that  he  had  given  his  suspicions  to  the 
winds  —  that  he  could  love  him  as  a  son,  and  rejoice  with  a  father's  pride 
in  the  graces  of  his  figure  and  the  noble  qualities  of  his  mind.  For  a  few 
seconds  the  fiction  endured:  he  felt  a  pang  —  it  was  nothing  —  gone;  it 
woula  not  return  a<2;ain  :  —  another!  was  he  for  ever  to  be  thus  tortured  ? 
Ana  then  a  wo-d,  a  look,  an  appearance  of  slighting  him  on  the  part  of 
Casinir,  an  indiscreet  smile  on  Cornelia's  lips,  would  at  once  set  a-light 
the  whole  devastating;  blaze.  The  countess  alone  had  any  power  over  him  • 
but  ,hou^h  he  yielded  to  her  influence,  he  was  the  more  enraged  that  she 
should  behold  his  weakness  ;  and  that  while  he  succeeded  in  maintaining 
an  elevated  impassibility  with  regard  to  herself,  his  heart,  with  all  its  fiavrw 
ana  poverty  of  purpose,  should,  through  the  ill-timed  interference  ui  Jus 
bov,  be  placed  once  more  naked  in  her  hand. 

Sueh  a  state  of  feeling,  where  passion  combated  passion,  while  reason 
was  forgotten  in  the  strife,  was  necessarily  pregnant  with  ruin.  The  only 
safVv  was  in  flight ;  —  ana"  Loaore  would  have  flown  — he  would  have  ab- 
sented himself  until  the  cause  of  his  sufferings  had  departed  — but  that,  more 
ana  mare,  jfliousv  entered  into  his  feelings  —  a  jealousy,  wound  up  by  the 
peculiarity^  situation,  into  a  sensitiveness  that  bordered  on  insanity, 

which  saw<PI  l^^a  smile,  and  overwhelming  hopeless  ruin  in  the  simplest 
exDression  of  kindness.  Cornelia  herself  was  disinclined  to  quit  London, 
and  tenacious  pride  rendered  him  averse  to  proposing  it,  since  he  could 
frame  no  plausible  pretext  for  his  change  of  purpose,  and  it  had  been  pre- 
viously arranged  that  they  should  remain  till  the  end  of  July.   The  presence 


44 


LODORE. 


of  the  Countess  Lyzinski  was  a  tie  to  keep  her  ;  and  to  have  pleaded  big 
feelings  with  regard  to  Casimir,  could  ie  have  brought  himself  so  to  do, 
would  probably  have  roused  her  at  once  into  rebellion.  There  was  no  re- 
source ;  he  must  bear,  and  also  he  must  forbear  ;  —but  the  last  was  be- 
yond his  power,  and  his  attempt  at  the  first  brought  with  it  destruction.  In 
the  last  instance,  at  the  Russian  ambassador's,  irritated  by  Cornelia's  tone 
of  defiance,  and  subsequent  levity,  he  levelled  a  scornful  remark  at  the  guilt- 
less and  unconscious  offender.  Casimir  had  endured  his  arrogance'and 
injustice  long.  He  knew  of  no  tie,  no  respect  due,  beyond  that  which  youth 
owes  to  maturer  years  ;  j  i  the  na  ural  sweetness  of  his  disposition  inclined 
him  to  forbearance,  until  njw,  that,  surrounded  by  his  own  countrymen  and 
by  Russians,  it  became  necessary  that  he  should  assert  himself.  He  replied 
with  haughtiness  ;  Lodore  rejoined  with  added  insult ;  —  and  when  again 
Casimn  retorted,  he  struck  him.  The  young  noble's  eves  flashed  fire:  seve- 
ral gentleman  interposed  between  them  ;  —  and  yielding  to  the  expediency 
of  the  moment,  the  .Pole,  with  admirable  temper,  withdrew. 

Humiliated  and  dismayed,  but  still  burning  with  fury,  Lodore  saw  at 
once  the  consequences  of  his  angry  transport.  ■-  With  all  the  impetuosity  ot 
his  fiery  spirit,  he  resolved  to  quit  at  once  the  scene  in  which  he  had  played 
his  part  so  ill.  There  was  no  other  alternative.  The  most  frightful  crimes 
blocked  up  every  other  outlet:  this  was  his  sole  escape,  and  he  must  seize 
on  it  without  delay.  Lady  Lodore  had  not  even  deigned  to  answer  his  re- 
quest that  she  should  accompany  him  ;  and  her  mother's  note  aDpeared  the 
very  refinement  of  insolence.  They  abandoned  him.  They  left  the  roof 
from  which  he  was  about  to  exile  himself,  even  before  he  had  quitted  it,  as 
if  in  fear  of  contamination  during  his  brief  delay.  Thus  he  construed  their 
retreat  ;  and  worked  up,  as  he  was,  almost  to  madness,  he  considered  their 
departure  as  the  commencement  of  that  universal  ban,  which  for  ever  here- 
after was  to  accompany  his  name.  It  opened  anew  the  wound  his  honour 
had  sustained  f  and  he  poured  forth  a  vow  never  more  to  ally  himself  in 
bonds  of  love  or  amity  with  one  among  his  kind. 

His  purpose  was  settled,  and  he  did  not  postpone  its  execution.  Post- 
horses  were  ordered,  and  hasty  preparations  made,  for  his  departure.  Alone, 
abandoned,  disgraced,  in  another  hour  he  was  to  quit  his  home,  his  wife,  all 
that  endears  existence,  for  ever  :  yet  the  short  interval  that  preceded  his  de- 
parture hung  like  a  long-drawn  day  upon  him  ;  and  time  seemed  to  make 
a  full  stop,  at  a  period  when  he  would  have  rejoiced  had  it  leaped  many  years 
to  come.  The  heart's  prayer  in  agony  did  not  avail :  he  was  still  kept  lin- 
gering, when  a  knocking  at  the  door  announced  a  visiter,  who,  at  that  late 
hour,  could  come  for  one  purpose  only.  Lord  Lodore  oidered  himself  to  be 
denied,  and  Count  Casimir's  second  departed  to  seek  him  elsewhere.  Cold 
dew-drops  stood  on  Lodore's  brow  as  he  heard  this  gentleman  parley  in 
foreign  accent  with  the  servant ;  trying,  doubtless,  to  make  out  where  it  was 
likely  that  he  should  meet  with  him  :  theydoor  closed  at  last,  and  he  listened 
to  the  departing  steps  of  his  visiter,  who  could  scarcelvhave  left  the  square, 
beiore  his  travelling  chariot  drove  up.  And  now,  while  final  arrangements 
were  making,  with  a  heart  heavy  from  bitter  self-condemnation,  he  visited 
the  couch  of  his  sleeping  daughter,  once  more  to  gaze  on  her  sweet  face, 
and  for  the  last  time  to  bestow  a  father's  blessing  on  her.  The  early  sum- 
mer morning  was  abroad  in  the  sky  ;  and  as  he  opened  her  curtains,  the 
first  sunbeam  played  upon  her  features.  He  stooped  to  k  s  her  little  rosy 
hps :  —  "And  I  leave  this  spotless  being  to  the  blighting  influence  of  that 
woman  !"  His  murmurs  disturbed  the  child's  slumberf^fne  woke,  and 
smiled  to  see  her  father ;  and  then  insisted  upon  rising,  as  he  was  up,  and 
it  was  day.  r' 

"But  I  am  eome  to  say  good-by,  sweet,"  he  said ;  "lam  coin°-  a  lone 
journey."  B      °  & 


LODORE.  45 

1  Oh,  take  me  with  you !"  cried  the  little  girl,  springing  up,  and  fastening 
her  arms  round  his  neck.  He  felt  her  soft  cheek  pressed  to  his  ;  her  hands 
tryin  \  to  hold  fast  and  to  resist  his  endeavours  to  disengage  them.  His 
heart  warmed  within  him.  "  For  a  short  distance  1  may  indulge  myself," 
he  said,  and  he  thought  how  her  prattle  would  solace  his  darker  cares,  during 
his  road  to  Southampton.  So,  causing  her  attendant  to  make  speedy  prep- 
aration, he  took  her  in  the  carriage  with  him;  and  her  infantine  delight  so 
occupied  him,  that  he  scarcely  remembered  his  situation,  or  what  exactly  he 
was  doing;,  as  he  drove  for  the  last  time  through  the  lightsome  and  deserted 
streets  of  the  metropolis. 

And  now  he  had  quitted  these;  and  the  country,  in  all  its  summer 
beauty,  opened  around  him  —  meadows  and  fields  with  their  hedge-rows, 
tufted  groves  crowning  the  uplands,  and  "  the  blue  sky  bent  over  all." 
" F  on  these  they  cannot  banish  me,"  he  thought ;  " in  spite  of  dishonour 
and  infamy,  the  loveliness  of  nature,  and  the  freedom  of  my  will,  still  are 
mine  :  —  and  is  this  all  ?"  —  his  child  had  sunk  to  sleep,  nestled  close  in 
his  arms  ;  "  Ah  !  what  will  these  be  to  me,  when  I  have*  lost  this  treasure, 
dearest  of  all  ?  —  yet  why  lose  her  ?"  This  question,  when  it  first  pre- 
sented itself  to  him,  he  put  aside  as  one  that  answered  itself —  to  deprive  a 
mother  of  her  child  were  barbarity  beyond  that  of  savages  ;  —  but  again 
and  a^ain  it  came  across  him,  and  he  began  to  reason  with  it,  and  to  con- 
vince himself  that  he  should  be  unjust  towards  himself  in  relinquishing 
this  last  remaining  blessing.  His  arguments  were  false,  his  conclusions 
rash  and  selfish  ;  but  of  this  he  was  not  aware.  Our  several  minds,  in 
refl  >eting  to  our  judgments  the  occurrences  of  life,  are  like  mirrors  of  va- 
rious shapes  and  hues,  so  that  we  none  of  us  perceive  passing  objects  with 
exactly  similar  optics  ;  and  while  all  pretend  to  regulate  themselves  by  the 
quadrant  of  justice,  the  deceptive  medium  through  which  the  reality  is 
viewed,  causes  our  ideas  of  it  to  be  at  once  various  and  false.  This  is  the 
case  in  immaterial  points  ;  how  much  more  so,  when  self-love  magnifies, 
and  passion  obscures,  the  glass  through  which  we  look  upon  others  and 
ours^lv^s.  The  chief  task  of  the  philosopher  is  to  purify  and  correct  the 
intellectual  prism  ;  —  but  Lodore  was  the  reverse  of  a  philosopher ;  and 
the  more  he  gazed  and  considered,  the  more  imperfect  and  distorted  became 
his  perception. 

To  act  justly  by  ourselves  and  others,  is  the  aim  of  every  well-con- 
ditioned mind  :  for  the  sght  of  pain  in  our  fellow-creatures,  and  the  sense 
of  self-coni^mnation  within  ou '"Selves,  is  fraught  with  a  pang  from  which 
we  would  wdlin  ;ly  escape  ;  and  every  heart  not  formed  of  the  coarsest 
materials  is  keenlv  alive  to  such  emotions.  Lodore  resolved  to  judge 
calmlv,  and  he  reviewed  coolly,  and  weighed  (he  believed)  impartially,  the 
various  merits  of  the  question.  He  thought  of  Lady  Santerre's  world- 
lings, hef  vulvar  ambition,  her  low-born  contempt  for  all  that  is  noble  and 
el^vatini  in  human  native.  He  thought  of  Co  "nelia's  docility  to  her 
mother's  lessons  her  careless  disregard  of  the  nobler  duties  of  life,  of  her 
frivolity  and  unfeeling  nature  : — then,  almost  against  his  w'.h,  nis  own 
manv  excellencies  rose  before  him  ;  —  his  lofty  aspirations,  his  self-sacrifice 
for  the  good  of  others,  the  affection ateness  of  his  disposition,  his  mildness, 
his  de=ire  to  be  just  and  kind  to  all,  his  willingness  to  devote  every  hour  of 
the  day,  and  every  thought  of  his  mind,  to  the  well  bringing  up  of  his 
daughter :  aMJierson  must  be  strangely  blind  who  did  not  perceive  that,  as 
far  as  the  child  was  concerned   she  would  be  far  better  ofF  with  him. 

And  then,  in  another  point  of  view  :  Lady  Lodo-e  had  her  mother  — 
and'she  had  the  world.  She  had  not  only  beauty,  rank,  and  wealth;  but 
she  had  a  tist°  for  enjoying  the  advantages  yielded  by  these  on  the  com- 
mon soil  of  daily  life.  He  cared  for  nothing  in  the  wide  world  —  he  loved 
nothing  but  this  little  child.     He  would  willingly  exchange  for  her  the  far 


46  LODORE. 

greater  portion  of  his  fortune,  which  Lady  Lodore  should  enjoy ;  reserving 
or  himself  such  a  pittance  merely  as  would  suffice  for  his  own  and  his 
daughter  s  support.  He  had  neither  home,  nor  friends,  nor  youth,  nor  taint- 
less reputation;  nor  any  of  all  the  blessings  of  life,  of  which  Cornelia  pos- 
sessed a  superabundance.  Her  child  was  as  nothing  in  the  midst  of  these. 
Sue  had  left  her  without  a  sigh,  even  without  a  thought ;  while  but  to  ima 
gine  the  moment  of  parting  was  a  dagger  to  her  father's  heart.  "What  a 
fool  he  had  been  to  hesitate  so  long  —  to  hesitate  at  all !  There  she  was, 
this  angel  of  comfort ;  her  little  form  was  cradled  in  his  arms,  he  felt  her 
soft  breath  upon  his  hand,  and  the  regular  heaving  of  her  bosom  responded 
to  the  beatings  of  his  own  heart ;  her  golden,  glossy  hair,  her  crimsoned 
cheek,  her  soft  round  limbs  ;  —  all  this  matchless  "  bower  of  flesh,"  that 
held  in  the  budding  soul  and  already  expanding  affections  of  this  earthly 
cherub,  was  with  him.  And  had  he  imagined  that  he  could  part  with  her? 
Rather  would  he  return  to  Lady  Lodore,  to  dishonour,  to  scenes  of  hate 
and  of  the  world's  contempt,  so  that  thus  he  preserved  her  :  it  could  not  be 
required  of  her:  but  if  Cornelia's  heart  was  animated  by  a  tithe  of  the 
fondness  that  warmed  his,  she  would  not  hesitate  in  her  choice  ;  but,  dis- 
carding every  unworthy  feeling,  follow  her  child  into  the  distant  and  soli- 
tary abode  he  was  about  to  select. 

Thus  pacifying  his  conscience,  Lodore  came  to  the  conclusion  of  making 
his  daughter  the  partner  of  his  exile.  Soon  after  mid-day,  they  arrived  at 
Southampton  ;  a  small  vessel  was  on  the  point  of  sailing  for  Havre,  and 
on  board  this  he  hurried.  Before  he  went  he  gave  one  hasty  retro- 
spective view  to  those  he  was  leaving  behind  —  his  wife,  his  sister,  the 
filial  antagonist  from  he  was  flying ;  he  could  readily  address  himself 
to  the  first  of  these,  when  landed  on  the  opposite  coast ;  but  as  he  wished 
to  keep  his  destination  a  secret  from  the  latter,  and  to  prevent,  if  possible, 
his  being  followed  and  defied  by  him,  an  event  still  to  be  feared,  he  em- 
ployed the  few  remaining  minutes,  before  quitting  his  country  for  ever,  in 
writing  a  brief  letter  to  the  Countess  Lyzinski,  which  he  gave  in  charge  to 
a  servant  whom  he  dismissed,  and  sent  back  to  town.  And  thus  he  now 
addressed  her,  who,  in  his  early  life,  had  been  as  the  moon  to  raise  the  tide 
of  passion,  incapable,  alas  !  of  controlling  its  waves  when  at  the  full. 

"It  is  all  over:  I  have  fulfilled  my  part  —  the  rest  remains  with  you. 
To  prevent  the  ruin  which  my  folly  has  brought  down,  from  crushing  any 
but  myself,  I  quit  country,  home,  good  name  —  all  that  is  dear  to  man.  I 
do  not  complain,  nor  will  I  repine.  But  let  the  evil,  I  entreat  you,  stop  here. 
Casimir  must  not  follow  me  ;  he  must  not  know  whither  I  am  gone;  and 
while  he  brands  his  antagonist  with  the  name  of  coward,  he  must  not  guess 
that  for  his  sake  I  endure  this  stain.  I  leave  it  to  your  prudence  and  sacra- 
city  to  calm  or  to  mislead  him,  to  prevent  his  suspecting  the  truth,*  or  rashly 
seeking  my  life.  1  sacrifice  more,  far  more,  than  my  heart's  blood  on  his 
account  —  let  that  satisfy  even  your  vengeance. 

"  I  would  not  write  harshly.  The  dream  of  life  has  long  been  over  for 
me  ;  it  matters  not  how  or  where  the  last  sands  flow  out.  I  ^o  not  blame 
you  even  for  this  ill-omened  journey  to  England,  which  could  avail  you 
nothing.  Once  before  we  parted  for  ever,  Theodora  ;  but  that  separation 
was  as  the  pastime  of  children  in  comparison  with  the  tragic  scene  we  now 
enact.  A  thousand  dangers  yawn  between  us,  and  we  shall  neither  dare 
to  repass  the  gulf  that  divides  us.  Forget  me; — be  happy,  and  forget 
me  !  May  Casimir  be  a  blessing  to  you,  and  while  you  glory  in  his  per- 
fections and  prosperity,  cast  into  oblivion  every  thought  of  him  who  now 
bids  you  an  eternal  adieu." 


IrODORS.  49 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Her  virtue,  like  our  own,  was  built 
Too  mui'h  on  that  indignant  fuss, 
Hyp  'crite  pride  stirs  up  in  us, 
To  bully  out  another's  guilt. 

Shelley. 

The  fifth  day  after  Lord  Lodore's  departure  brought  Cornelia  a  lette? 
Rom  hiii.  Sue  had  spent  the  interval  at  Twickenham,  surrendering  her 
sorrows  ana  cheir  consolation  to  her  mothers  care  ;  and  inspired  by  her 
with  aeep  resentment  and  angry  disdain.  The  letter  she  received  was  dated 
Havre :  the  substance  of  it  was  as  follows. 

"  Believe  me,  I  am  actuated  by  no  selfish  considerations,  when  T  ask  you 
once  a^ain  to  reflect  before  the  Atlantic  divides  us  —  probably  for  evd.  It 
is  for  your  own  sake,  your  own  happiness  only,  that  I  ask  you  to  hesitate, 
I  will  not  urge  your  duty  to  me  ;  the  dishonour  that  has  fallen  on  me  I  am 
most  ready  to  bear  alone  ;  mine  towards  you,  as  far  as  present  circum- 
stances permit,  I  am  desirous  to  fulfil,  and  this  feeling  dictates  my  present 
address. 

*'  Consider  the  solitary  years  you  will  pass  alone,  even  though  in  a 
crowd,  divided  from  your  husuand  and  your  child  — your  home  desolate  — 
calumny  and  ill  nature  at  watch  around  you  —  not  one  protecting  crm 
stretched  over  you.  Your  mother's  presence,  it  is  true,  will  sufnr.e  to  pre- 
vent your  position  from  being  in  the  least  equivocal ;  but  the  time  will  soon 
cone  whsn  you  will  discover  your  mistake  in  her,  and  find  how  unworthy 
she  is  of  your  exclusive  affection.  I  will  not  urge  the  temptations  and 
dangers  that  will  beset  you  ;  your  pride  will,  I  doubt  not,  preserve  you  from 
these,  yet  they  will  be  near  you  in  their  worst  shape :  you  will  feel  their 
approaches;  you  will  shudder  at  their  menaces,  you  will  desire  my  death, 
an!  the  faith  pledged  to  me  at  the  altar  will  become  a  chain  and  a  torture 
to  you. 

"  I  can  only  offer  such  affection  as  your  sacrifice  will  deserve  to  adorn  a 
lonely  and  obscure  home  ;  rank,  society,  flatterers,  the  luxuries  of  civiliza- 
tion—  all  thjse  blessings  you  must  forego.  Your  lot  will  be  cast  in  soli- 
tude. The  wide  forest,  the  uninhabited  plain,  will  shelter  us.  Your  hus- 
band, your  child  ;  in  us  alone  you  must  view  the  sum  and  aim  of  your  life. 
I  will  not  Use  the  language  of  persuasion,  but  in  inviting  you  to  share  my 
p-ivations  I  renewT,  yet  more  solemnly,  the  vows  we  once  interchanged  ; 
ani  it  shall  be  mv  care  to  endeavour  to  fulfil  mine  with  more  satisfaction 
to  both  of  us  than  has  until  now  been  the  case. 

"  It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  veil  the  truth,  that  hitherto  our  learts  have 
been  alienated  from  each  other.  The  cause  is  not  in  ourselves,  and  must 
never  a  grain  be  permitted  to  influence  either  of  us.  If  amidst  the  avocations 
of  society,  the  presence  of  a  thi-d  person  has  been  sufficient  to  place  divi- 
sion between  us  — if  on  the  flowery  path  of  our  prosperous  life,  one  fatal 
interference  has  strewn  thirns  and  burning  ashes  beneath  our  feet  —  how 
much  more  n^ply  would  this  intervention  be  felt  in  the  retirement  in  which 
we  are  hereafter  to  spend  o:ir  days.  —  In  the  lonely  spot  to  which  it  will  be 
necessary  to  contract  all  our  thoughts  and  hopes,  love  must  alone  rei^n  ; 
or  hell  itself  would  be  hut  pastime  in  comparison  to  our  ever-renewing  and 
sleepless  torments.  The  spirit  of  worldliness,  of  discord,  of  paltry  pride, 
must  not  enter  the  paling  which  is  to  surround  our  simple  dwelling.    Come, 


48  LODORE. 

attended  by  affection,  by  open-hearted  confidence ;  —  come  to  me  —  to  your 
child !  —  you  will  find  with  us  peace  and  mutual  love,  the  true  secret  of 
life,  All  that  can  make  your  mother  happy  in  England  shall  be  provided 
with  no  niggard  hand :  —  but  come  alone,  Cornelia,  my  wife  !  —  come,  to 
take  possession  of  the  hearts  that  are  truly  yours,  and  to  learn  a  new  les- 
son, in  a  new  world,  from  him  who  will  dedicate  himself  entirely  to  you. 

"  Alas !  I  fear  that  I  speak  an  unknown  language,  and  one  that  you  will 
never  deign  to  understand.  Still  1  again  implore  you  to  reflect  before  you 
decide.  On  one  point  1  am  firm  —  I  feel  that  I  am  in  the  right  —  that  every 
thing  depends  upon  it.  Our  daughter's  guileless  heart  shall  never  be  tainted 
by  all  that  I«abhor  and  despise.  For  her  sake,  for  yours,  more  than  for  my 
ov,  ii  I  am  as  rock  upon  one  question.  Do  not  strive  to  move  me  —  it  will 
be  useless  !  Come  alone  !  and  ten  thousand  welcomes  and  blessings  shall 
hail  your  arrival ! 

"  A  vessel,  in  which  I  have  engaged  a  passage,  sails  for  New- York, 
from  this  place,  in  five  days'  time.  You  must  not  delay  your  decision  ;  but 
hasten,  if  such  be  your  gracious  resolve,  to  join  me  here. 

•'If  you  decide  to  sacrifice  yourself  to  one  who  will  never  repay  that  sacri- 
fice, and  to  the  world,  —  that  dreary,  pain-haunted  jungle,  —  at  least  you 
shall  receive  from  me  all  that  can  render  your  situation  there  prosperous. 
You  shall  not  complain  for  want  of  generosity  on  my  part.  I  shall,  in  my 
new  course  of  life,  require  little  myself;  the  remainder  of  my  fortune  shall 
be  at  your  disposal. 

"  I  need  not  recommend  secrecy  to  you  as  to  the  real  motive  of  my  exile 
—  your  own  sense  of  delicacy  will  dictate  reserve  and  silence.  This  letter 
will  be  delivered  to  you  by  Fenton  :  he  will  attend  you  back  here,  or  bring 
me  your  negative  —  the  seal,  I  feel  assured,  of  your  future  misery.  God 
grant  that  you  choose  wisely  and  well !     Adieu." 

The  heart  of  Lady  Lodore  burnt  within  her  bosom  as  she  read  these 
lines.  Haughty  and  proud,  was  she  to  be  dictated  to  thus  ?  and  to  follow, 
an  obedient,  slave,  the  master  that  deigned  to  recall  her  to  his  presence, 
after  he  had  (so  she  termed  his  abrupt  departure)  deserted  her  ?  Her  mo- 
ther sat  by,  looking  at  her  with  an  anxious  and  inquiring  glance,  as  she 
read  the  letter.  She  saw  the  changes  of  her  countenance,  as  it  expressed 
anger,  scorn,  and  bitter  indignation.  She  finished  —  she  was  still  silent,  — 
how  cou'.d  she  show  this  insulting  address  to  her  parent  ?  Again  she 
seemed  to  study  its  contents  —  to  ponder. 

Lady  Santeire  rose — gently  she  was  taking  the  paper  from  Cornelia's 
hand.  "  You  must  not  read  it,"  she  cried  ; —  "  and  yet  you  must ;  —  and 
thus  one  other  wrong  is  heaped  upon  the  many." 

Lady  Santerre  read  the  letter;  silently  she  perused  it — folded  it  — 
rlaoed  it  on  the  table.  Cornelia  looked  up  at  her.  "  I  do  not  fear  your 
deov.ion,"  she  said  ;  "  you  will  not  abandon  a  parent,  who  has  devoted  her- 
self to  you  from  your  cradle  —  who  lives  but  for  }Tou." 

The  unhappy  girl,  unable  to  resist  her  mother's  appeal,  threw  herself 
into  her  arms.  Even  the  cold  Lady  Santerre  was  moved  —  tears  flowed 
Fiom  her  eyes  :  —  "  My  dear  child  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  My  dear  child  !"  — the  words  found  an  echo  in  Lady  Lodore's  bosom  ; 
— "I  am  never  to  see  my  child  more  !" 

"  Such  is  his  threat,"  said  her  mother,  "  knowing  thus  the  power  he  has 
over  you  ;  but  do  not  fear  that  it  will  be  accomplished.  Lord  Lodore's 
conduct  is  guided  by  no  principle  —  by  no  deference  to  the  opinion  of  the 
world  —  by  no  just  or  sober  motives.  He  is  as  full  of  passion  as  a  mad- 
man, and  more  vacillating.  This  is  his  fancy  now  —  to  quit  England  for 
the  wilderness,  and  to  torture  you  into  following  him,  You  are  as  lost  *a 
he,  if  you  yield.   A  little  patience,  and  all  will  be  right  again.   He  will  satm 


LODORE,  49 

grow  tired  of  playing  the  tragic  hero  on  a  Stage  surrounded  by  no  specta- 
tors ;  he  will  discover  the  folly  of  his  conduct;  he  will  return,  and  plead 
for  forgiveness,  and  feel  that  he  is  too  fortuna'tein  a  wife,  who  has  preserved 
her  own  conduct  free  from  censure  and  remark,  while  he  has  made  himself 
a  laughing-stock  to  all.  Do  net  permit  yourself,  dear  Cornelia,  to  be  baffled 
in  this  war  of  passion  with  reason  ;  of  jealousy,  selfishness,  and  tyranny, 
with  natural  affection,  a  child's  duty,  and  the  respect  you  owe  To  yourself. 
Even  if  he  remain  away,  he  will  quickly  become  weary  of  being  accom- 
panied by  an  infant  and  its  nurse,  and  too  glad  to  find  that  you  w:ll  still 
be  willing  to  act  the  mother  towards  his  child.  Firmness  and  discretion 
are  the  arms  you  must  use  against  folly  and  violence.  Yield,  and  you  are 
the  victim  of  a  despotism  without  parallel,  the  slave  of  a  task-master, 
whose  first  commands  are  gentle,  soft,  and  easy  injunctions  to  desert  your 
mother :  to  exile  yourself  from  your  country,  and  to  bury  yourself  alive  in 
some  unheard-of  desert,  whose  name  even  he  does  not  deign  to  communi- 
cate. All  this  would  be  only  too  silly  and  too  wild,  "Were  it  not  too  wicked 
and  too  cruel.  Believe  me,  my  love,  trust  yourself  to  my  guidance,  and  all 
will  be  well ;  Lodore  himself  will  thank,  if  such  thanks  be  of  value,  the 
prudence  and  generosity  you  will  display." 

Cornelia  listened,  and  was  persuaded.  Above  all,  Lady  Santerre  tried 
to  impress  upon  her  mind,  that  Lodore,  finding  her  firm,  would  give  up  his 
rash  schemes,  and  remain  in  Europe  ;  that  even  he  had,  probably,  never  really 
contemplated  crossing  the  Atlantic.  At  al!  events,  that  she  must  not  be 
guided  by  the  resolves,  changeable  as  the  moon,  of  a  man  governed  by  no 
sane  perpose  ;  but  that,  by  showing  herself  determined,  he  would  be 
brought  to  bend  to  her  will.  In  this  spirit  Lady  Lodore  replied  to  her  hus- 
band's letter.  Penton,  Lord  Lodore's  valet,  who  had  been  the  bearer,  had 
left  it,  and  proceeded  to  London.  He  returned  the  day  following,  to  re- 
ceive his  lady's  orders.  Cornelia  saw  him  and  questioned  him.  She  heard 
that  Lord  Lodore  was  to  dismiss  him  and  all  his  English  servants  before 
embarking  for  America,  with  the  exception  of  the  child's  nurse,  whom  he 
had  promised  to  send  back  on  his  arrival  at  New- York.  He  had  engaged 
his  passage,  and  fitted  up  cabins  for  his  convenience,  so  that  there  could 
be  no  doubt  of  his  having  finally  resolved  to  emigrate.  This  was  all  he 
knew;  Cornelia  gave  him  her  letter,  and  he  departed  on*the  instant  for 
Southampton. 

In  giving  his  wife  so  short  an  interval  in  which  to  form  her  determination, 
Lodore  conceived  that  her  first  impulse  would  be  to  join  her  child,  that  she 
would  act  upon  it,  and  at  least  come  as  far  as  Havre,  though  perhaps  her 
mother  would  accompany  her,  to  claim  her  daughter,  even  if  she  did  not 
besides  foster  a  hope  of  changing  his  resolves.  Lodore  had  an  unac- 
knowledged reserve  in  his  own  mind,  that  if  she  would  give  up  her  mother, 
and  for  a  time  the  world,  he  would  leave  the  choice  of  their  exile  to  her, 
and  relinquish  the  dreary  scheme  of  emigrating  to  America.  With  these 
thoughts  in  his  mind,  he  anxiously  awaited  each  day  the  arrival  of  the 
packets  from  England,  Each  day  he  hoped  to  see  Cornelia  disembark 
from  one  of  them ;  and  even  though  accompanied  by  Lady  Santerre,  he 
felt  that  his  heart  would  welcome  her.  During  this  interval,  his  thoughts 
had  recurred  to  his  home  ;  and  imagination  had  already  begun  to  paint  the 
memory  of  that  home  in  brighter  colours  than  the  reality.  Lady  Lodore 
had  not  been  all  coldness  and  alienation;  in  spite  of  dissension,  she  had 
been  his  ;  her  form,  graceful  as  a  nymph's,  had  met  his  eyes  each  morning  ; 
her  smile,  her  voice,  her  light  cheering  laugh,  had  animated  and  embellished 
how  many  hours  during  the  long  days  grown  vacant  without  her.  Cherish- 
ing a  hope  of  seeing  her  again,  he  forgot  her  petulance  —  her  self-will  — 
her  love  of  pleasure  ;  and  remembering  only  her  beauty  and  her  grace,  he 
began,  in  a  lover-like  fashion,  to  impart  to  this  charming  image  a  soul  in 
32—5 


50  •  LODOSE. 

accordance  to  his  wishes,  rather  than  to  the  reality.  Each  day  he  attended 
less  carefully  to  the  preparations  for  his  long  voyage.  Each  day  he  expected 
her  ;  a  chill  came  over  his  heart  at  each  evening's  still  recurring  disappoint- 
ment, till  hope  awoke  on  the  ensuing  morning.  More  than  once  he  had 
been  on  the  eve  of  sailing  to  England  to  meet  and  escort  her;  a  thousand 
times  he  reproached  himself  for  not  having  made  Southampton  the  place  of 
meeting,  and  he  was  withheld  from  proceeding  thither  only  by  the  fear  of 
missing  her.  Giving  way  to  these  sentiments,  the  tide  of  affection,  swelling 
into  passion,  rose  in  his  breast.  He  doubted  not  that,  ere  Ions,  she  would 
arrive,  and  taxed  himself  for  modes  to  show  his  gratitude  and  love. 

The  American  vessel  was  on  the  point  of  sailing  —  it  might  have  gore 
without  him,  he  cared  not ;  when  on  the  sixth  day  Fenton  arrived,  and  put 
into  his  hand  Cornelia's  letter.  This  then  was  the  end  of  his  expectation, 
this  little  paper  coldly  closed  in  the  destruction  of  his  hopes  ;  yet  might  it 
not  merely  contain  a  request  for  delay?  There  was  something  in  the 
servant's  manner  that. looked  not  like  that;  but  still,  as  soon  as  the  idea 
crossed  him,  he  tore  open  the  seal.  The  words  were  few,  they  were  con- 
ceived in  all  the  spirit  of  resentment. 

"  You  add  insult  to  cruelty,"  it  said  •  "  but  I  scorn  to  complain.  The  very 
condition  you  make  displays  the  hollowness  and  deceit  of  your  proceeding, 
You  well  know  that  1  cannot,  that  I  will  not,  desert  my  mother;  but  by 
calling  on  me  for  this  dereliction  of  all  duty  and  virtuous  affection,  you 
contrive  to  throw  on  me  the  odium  of  refusing  to  accompany  you  ;  this  is 
a  worthy  design,  and  it  is  successful. 

"  I  demand  my  child  —  restore  her  to  me.  It  is  cruelty  beyond  compare 
to  separate  one  so  young  from  maternal  tenderness  and  fosterage.  By 
what  right  —  through  what  plea,  do  you  rob  me  of  her  ?  The  tyranny  and 
dark  jealousy  of  your  vindictive  nature  display  themselves  in  this  act  of 
unprincipled  violence,  as  well  as  in  your  insulting  treatment  of  my  mother. 
You  alone  must  reign,  be  feared,  be  thought  of;  all  others  are  to  be  sacri- 
ficed, living  victims,  at  the  shrine  of  your  self-love.  "What  have  you  done 
to  merit  so  much  devotion  ?  Ask  your  heart  —  if  it  be  not  turned  to  stone  — 
ask  it  what  you  have  done  to  compare  with  the  long  years  of  affection, 
kindness,  and  never-ceasing  care  that  my  beloved  parent  has  bestowed  ». 
me.  I  am  your  wife,  Lodore  ;  I  bear  your  name ;  I  will  be  true  to  the 
vows  I  have  made  you,  nor  will  I  number  the  tears  you  force  me  to  shed  j 
but  my  mother's  are  sacred,  and  not  one  falls  in  vain  for  me. 

"  Give  me  my  child  —  let  the  rest  be  yours  —  depart  in  peace !  If  Heaven 
have  blessings  for  the  coldly  egotistical,  the  unfeeling  despot,  may  these 
blessings  be  youre ;  but  do  not  dare  to  interfere  with  emotions  too  pure, 
too  disinterested  for  you  ever  to  understand.  Give  me  my  child,  and  fear 
neither  my  interference  nor  resentment.  I  am  content  to  be  as  dead  ts> 
you  —  quite  content  never  to  see  you  more." 


LODORE.  51 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


And  so  farewell ;  for  we  will  henceforth  be 
As  we  had  never  seen,  ne'er  more  shall  ?ee 

Heywood. 

Lodore  had  passed  many  days  upon  the  sea,  on  his  voyage  to  America, 
before  he  could  in  the  least  calm  the  bitter  emotions  to  which  Cornelia's 
violent  letter  had  given  birth.  He  was  on  the  wide  Atlantic ;  the  turbid 
ocean  swelled  and  roared  around  him,  and  heaven,  the  mansion  of  the 
winds,  showed  on  its  horizon  an  extent  of  water  only.  He  was  cut  off  from 
England,  from  Europe,  for  ever  ;  and  the  vast  continents  he  quitted  dwin- 
dled into  a  span ;  but  still  the  images  of  those  he  left  behind  dwelt  in  his 
soul,  engrossing  and  filling  it.  They  could  no  longer  personally  taunt  nor 
injure  him  ;  but  the  thought  of  them,  of  all  that  they  might  say  or  do, 
haunted  his  mind  ;  it  was  like  an  unreal  strife  of  gigantic  shadows  beneath 
dark  night,  which,  when  you  approach,  dwindles  into  thin  air,  but  which, 
contemplated  at  a  distance,  fills  the  hemisphere  with  star-reaching  heads, 
and  steps  that  scale  mountains.  There  was  a  sleepless  tumult  in  Lodore's 
heart ;  it  was  a  waking  dream  of  the  most  painful  description.  Again  and 
again  Cornelia  assailed  him  with  repi.-aches,  and  Lady  Santerre  poured  out 
curses  upon  him ;  his  fancy  lent  them  words  and  looks  full  of  menace,  hate, 
and  violence.  Sometimes  the  sighing  of  the  breeze  in  the  shrouds  assumed 
a  tone  that  mocked  their  voices  ;  his  sleep  was  disturbed  by  dreams  more 
painful  than  his  daylight  fancies  ;  and  the  sense  which  they  imparted  of 
suffering  and  oppression  was  prolonged  throughout  the  day. 

He  occasionally  felt  that  he  might  become  mad,  and  at  such  moments 
the  presence  of  his  child  brought  consolation  and  calm  ;  her  caresses,  her 
lisped  expressions  of  affection,  her  playfulness,  her  smiles,  were  spells  to 
d-ive  away  the  fantastic  reveries  that  tortured  him.  He  looked  upon  her 
cherub  face,  and  the  world,  late  so  full  of  wretchedness  and  ill,  assumed 
brighter  hues  ;  the  storm  was  allayed,  the  dark  clouds  fled,  sunshine  poured 
forth  its  beams  ;  by  degrees,  tender  and  gentle  sensations  crept  over  his 
heart ;  he  forgot  the  angry  contentions  in  which,  in  imagination,  he  had 
been  engaged,  and  he  felt,  that  alone  on  the  sea,  with  this  earthly  angel  of 
peace  near  him,  he  was  divided  from  every  evil,  to  dwell  with  tranquillity 
and  love. 

To  part  with  her  had  become  impossible.  She  was  all  that  rendered  him 
human  — that  plucked  the  thorn  from  his  pillow,  and  poured  one  mitigating 
drop  into  the  bitter  draught  administered  to  him.  % 

Cornelia,  Casimir,  Theodora,  his  mother-in-law,  these  were  all  various 
names  and  shapes  of  the  spirit  of  evil,  sent  upon  earth  to  torture  him  :  but 
this  heavenly  sprite  could  set  at  naught  their  machinations,  and  restore  him 
to  the  calm  and  hopes  of  childhood.  Extreme  in  all  things,  Lodore  began 
more  than  ever  to  dote  upon  her,  and  to  bind  up  his  life  in  her.  Yet  some- 
times his  heart  softened  at  the  recollection  of  his  wife,  of  her  extreme  youth, 
and  of  the  natural  pang  she  must  feel  at  being  deprived  of  her  daughter. 
He  figured  her  pining,  and  in  tears  —  he  remembered  that  he  had  vowed  to 
protect  and  love  her  for  ever ;  and  that,  deprived  of  him,  never  more  could 
the  soft  attentions  and  sweet  language  of  love  soothe  her  heart  or  meet  her 
ear,  unattended  with  a  sense  of  guilt  and  degradation.  He  knew  that 
hereafter  she  might  feel  this  —  hereafter,  when  passion  might  be  rouspd, 
and  he  could  afford  no  remedy.  Influenced  by  such  ideas,  he  wrote  to  her ; 
many  letters  he  wrote  during  his  voyage,  destroying  them  one  after  another, 


52  LODORE. 

dictated  by  the  varying  feelings  that  alternately  ruled  him.  Reason  and 
persuasion,  authority  and  tenderness,  reigned  by  turns  in  these  epistles  ; 
they  were  written  with  all  the  fervour  of  his  ardent  soul  and  breathed 
".rresistible  power.  Had  some  of  these  papers  met  Cornelia's  eye,  she  had 
assuredly  been  vanquished  ;  but  fate  ordained  it  otherwise :  fate  that  blindly 
weaves  our  web  of  life,  culling  her  materials  at  will,  and  often  wholly  re- 
fusing to  make  use  of  our  own  desires  and  intentions,  as  forming  a  part  of 
our  destiny. 

Lodore  arrived  at  New- York,  and  four\d  by  some  chance  letters  already 
wai',;ng  for  him  there.  He  had  concluded  one  to  his  wife  full  of  affection 
and  kindness,  when  a  letter  with  the  superscription  written  by  Lady  San- 
lerre  was  delivered  to  him.  It  spoke  of  law  proceedings,  of  eternal  separa- 
tion, and  announced  her  daughter's  resolve  to  receive  no  communication, 
to  read  no  address,  that  was  not  prefaced  by  the  restoration  of  her  child  ; 
it  referred  him  to  a  solicitor  as  the  medium  of  future  intercourse.  With  a 
bitter  laush  Lodore  tore  to  pieces  the  eloquent  and  heartfelt  appeal  he  had 
been  on  the  point  of  sending  ;  he  gave  up  his  thoughts  to  business  only  ; 
he  wrote  to  his  agent,  he  arranged  for  his  intended  journey  ;  in  less  than  a 
month  he  was  on  his  road  to  the  Illinois. 

Thus  ended  all  hope  of  reconciliation,  and  Lady  Santerre  won  the  day. 
She  had  worked  on  the  least  amiable  of  her  daughter's  feelings,  and  exalted 
anger  into  hatred,  disapprobation  into  contempt  and  aversion.  Soon  after 
Cornelia  had  dismissed  the  servant,  she  felt  that  she  had  acted  with  too 
little  reflection.  Her  heart  died  within  her  at  the  idea  that  too  truly  Lodore 
might  sail  away  with  her  child,  and  l^ave  her  widowed  and  solitary  for  ever. 
Her  proud  heart  knew,  on  this  account,  no  relenting  towards  her  husband, 
the  author  of  these  painful  feelings,  but  she  formed  the  resolve  not  to  lose  all 
without  a  struggle.  She  announced  her  intention  of  proceeding  to  Havre 
to  obtain  her  daughter.  Lady  Santerre  could  not  oppose  so  natural  a  pro- 
ceeding, especially  as  her  companionship  was  solicited  as  in  the  highest 
degree  necessary.  They  arrived  at  Southampton  ;  the  day  was  tempestuovs, 
the  wind  contrary.  Lady  Santerre  was  afraid  of  the  water,  and  their  voyage 
was  deferred.  On  the  evening  of  the  following  day  Fen  ton  arrived  from 
Havre.  Lord  Lodore  had  sailed  ;  the  stormy  waves  of  the  Atlantic  were 
between  him  and  the  shores  of  England  ;  pursuit  were  vain  ;  it  would  be 
an  acknowledgment  of  defeat  to  follow  him  to  America.  Cornelia  retu-  ned 
to  Twickenham,  maternal  sorrow  contending  in  her  heart  with  mortified 
pride,  and  a  keen  resentful  sense  of  injury. 

Lady  Lodore  was  nineteen  ;  an  age  when  youth  is  most  arrogant,  and 
most  heedless  of  the  feelings  of  others.  Her  beauty,  and  the  admiration 
it  acquired,  sat  heron  the  throne  of  the  world,  and,  to  her  own  imagination, 
she  looked  down,  like  an  eastern  princess,  upon  slaves  only  :  her  sway  she 
had  believed  to  be  absolute  ;  it  was  happiness  for  others  to  obey.  Exalted 
by  adulation,  it  was  natural  that  all  that  lowered  her  elevation  in  her  own 
eyes  should  appear  impertinent  and  hateful.  She  had  not  learned  to  feel 
with  or  for  others.  To  act  in  contradiction  to  her  wishes  was  a  crime 
beyond  compare,  and  her  soul  was  in  arms  to  resent  the  insolence  which 
thus  assailed  her  majesty  of  will.  The  act  of  Lodore,  stepping  beyond 
common-place  opposition  into  injury  and  wrong,  found  no  mitigating  excuses 
in  her  heart.  No  gentle  return  of  love,  no  compassion  for  the  unhappy 
exile  —  no  generous  desire  to  diminish  the  sufferings  of  one  who  was  the 
victim  of  the  wildest  and  most  tormenting  passions,  softened  her  bosom. 
She  was  injured,  insulted,  despised  ;  and  her  swelling  soul  was  incapable  of 
any  second  emotion  to  the  scorn  and  hate  with  which  she  visited  the  author 
of  her  degradation.  She  was  to  become  the  theme  of  the  world's  discourse, 
of  its  ill-natured  censure  or  mortifying  pity.  In  whatever  lisht  she  viewed 
her  present  position,  it  was  full  of  annoyance  and  humiliation ;  her  path 


LODORE.  53 

was  traced  through  a  maze  of  pointed  angles,  that  pained  her  at  every  turn, 
and  her  reflections  ma  niifying  the  imprudence  of  which  she  accused  herself, 
suggested  no  excuse  for  her  husband,  but  caused  her  wounds  to  fester  and 
burn.  Cornelia  was  not  of  a  lachrymose  disposition  ;  she  was  a  woman 
who  in  Sparta  had  formed  a  heroine ;  who  in  periods  of  war  and  revolution 
would  unflinchingly  have  met  calamity,  sustaining  and  leading  her  own 
sex.  But  through  the  bad  education  she  had  received,  and  her  extreme 
youth  elevation  of  feeling  degenerated  into  mere  personal  pride,  and  heroism 
wa  !  turned  into  obstinacy:  she  had  been  capable  of  the  most  admirable 
self-  sacrifice,  had  she  been  taught  the  right  sbnne  at  which  to  devote  herself; 
but  i:ei  mind  was  narrowed  by  the  mo  le  of  her  bringing  up,  and  her  loftiest 
ideas  vreie  centred  in  worldly  advantages  the  m^st  worthless  and  pitiable. 
To  defraud  her  of  these,  was  to  deprive  her  of  all  that  rendered  life  worth 
preserving. 

Ladv  Santerre  soothed,  flattered,  and  directed  her.  She  poured  the  balm 
of  gratified  vanity  upon  injured  pride,  ^he  bade  her  expect  speedy  repent- 
ance fron  her  husband,  and  impressed  her  with  the  idea,  that  if  she  were 
firm,  he  must  yield.  His  present  blustering  prognosticated  a  speedy  calm, 
when  he  would  regret  all  that  he  had  done,  and  seek,  by  entire  submission, 
to  win  back  his  wife.  Any  appearance  of  concession  on  her  part  would 
spoil  ail.  Cornelia's  eyes  flashed  fire  at  the  word.  Concession !  and  to 
whom?  To  him  who  had  wronged  and  insulted  her?  She  readny  gave 
into  her  mother's  hands  the.  management  of  all  future  intercourse  with 
him,  reserving  alone,  for  her  own  satisfaction,  an  absolute  resolve  never  to 
forgive. 

The  correspondence  that  ensued,  carried  on  across  the  Atlantic,  and 
soon  with  many  miles  of  continent  added  to  the  space,  only  produced  an 
interchange  of  letters  written  with  cool  insolence  on  one  side,  with  heart- 
burning and  impatience  on  the  other.  Each  served  to  widen  the  breach. 
When  Cornelia  was  not  awakened  to  resent  for  herself,  she  took  up  arms 
on  her.  mother's  account.  When  Lodore  blamed  her  for  being  the  puppet 
of  one  incapable  of  any  generous  feeling,  one  dedicated  to  the  vulgar  wor- 
ship of  Mammon,  she  repelled  the  taurff.  and  denied  the  servitude  of  soul 
of  which  she  was  accused  ;  she  declared  that  every  virtue  was  enlisted  on 
her  mother's  s;de,  and  that  she  would  abide  by  her  for  ever.  In  truth,  she 
loved  her  the  mo>e  for  Lodore's  hatred,  and  Ladv  Santerre  spared  no  pains 
to  impress  her  with  the  belief,  that  she  was  wholly  devoted  to  her. 

Thus  years  passed  away.  At  first  Lady  Lodore  had  lived  in  some  de- 
gree of  retirement,  but  persuaded  again  to  emerge,  she  soon  entered  into 
the  very  thickest  maze  of  society.  Her  fortune  was  sufficient  to  command 
a  respectable  station,  her  beauty  gained  her  partizans,  her  untainted  repu- 
tation secured  her  position  in  the  world.  Attractive  as  she  was,  she  was 
so  entirely  and  proudly  correct,  that  even  the  women  were  not  afraid  of  her. 
All  her  intimate  associates  were  people  whose  rank  save  weight  and  bril- 
liancy to  her  situation,  but  who  were  conspicuous  for  their  domestic  virtues. 
She  was  looked  upon  as  an  injured  and  deserted  wife,  whose  propriety  of 
conduct  was  the  more  admirable  from  the  difficulties  with  which  she  was 
surrounded  ;  she  became  more  than  ever  the  fashion,  and  years  glided  on, 
as  from  season  to  s°ason  she  shone  a  brisht  star  among  many  luminaries, 
imp'-ovinT  in  charms  and  grace,  as  knowledge  of  the  world  and  the  desire 
of  i>lea=in2;  were  added  to  her  natural  attractions. 

Th°  stoies  at  first  in  circulation  on  Lodore's  departure,  all  sufficiently 
wile  from  the  t-uth,  were  half  forgotten,  and  served  merely  as  an  obscure 
substratum  for  Cornelia's  bright  reputation.  He  was  gone:  he  could  no 
longer  injure  nor  benefit  anv,  and  was  therefore  no  longer  an  object  of  fear 
or  love.  The  most  charitable  construction  put  upon  his  conduct  was,  that 
he  was  mad,  and  it  was  piously  observed,  that  his  removal  from  this  world 
5* 


54  lodore. 

would  be  a  blessing.  Lady  Santerre  triumpbed.  Withering  away  in  un- 
honoured  a°;e,  still  she  appeared  in  the  halls  of  the  great,  and  played  the 
part  of  Cerberus  in  her  daughter's  drawing-room.  Lady  Lodore,  beauti- 
ful and  admired,  intoxicated  with  this  sort  of  prosperity,  untouched  by  pas- 
sion, unharmed*  by  the  temptations  that  surrounded  her,  believed  that  life 
was  spent  most  worthily  in  following  the  routine  observed  by  those  about 
her,  and  securing  the  privilege  of  being  exclusive.  She  was  the  glass  of 
fashion  —  the  imitated  by  a  vast  set  of  imitators.  The  deprivation  of  her 
child  was  the  sole  cloud  that  came  between  her  and  the  sun.  In  despite  of 
herself,  she  never  saw  a  little  cherub  with  rosy  cheeks  and  golden  hair,  but 
her  heart  was  visited  by  a  pang  ;  and  in  her  dreams  she  often  beheld,  instead 
of  the  image  of  the  gay  saloons  in  which  she  spent  her  evenings,  a  desert 
wild  —  a  solitary  home  —  and  tiny  footsteps  on  the  dewy  grass,  guiding  her 
to  her  baby  daughter,  whose  soft  cooings,  remembered  during  absence, 
were  agonizing  to  her.  She  awoke,  and  vowed  her  soul  to  hatred  of  the 
author  of  her  sufferings  —  the  cruel-hearted,  insolent  Lodore;  and  then 
fled  to  pleasure  as  the  means  of  banishing  these  sad  and  disturbing  emo- 
tions. She  never  again  saw  Casimir.  Long  before  she  reappeared  in  the 
world,  he  and  his  mother  had  quitted  England.  Taught  by  the  slight 
tinge  of  weakness  that  had  mingled  with  her  intercourse  with  him,  she 
sedulously  avoided  like  trials  in  future;  and  placing  her  happiness  in  uni- 
versal applause,  love  saw  her  set  his  power  at  naught,  and  pride  become  a 
more  impenetrable  shield  than  wisdom. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Time  and  Change  together  take  their  flight. 

L.   E.    L. 

Fitzhenry  and  his  daughter  travelled  for  many  days  in  rain  and  sun- 
shine, across  the  vast  plains  of  America.  Conversation  beguiled  the  way, 
and  Ethel,  delighted  by  the  novelty  and  variety  of  all  she  saw,  often  felt  as 
if  springing  from  her  seat  with  a  new  sense  of  excitement  and  gladness. 
So  much  do  the  young  love  change,  that  we  have  oft  n  thought  it  the  dis- 
pensation of  the  Creator,  to  show  that  we  are  formed,  at  a  certain  age,  to 
quit  the  parental  roof,  like  the  patriarch,  to  seek  some  new  abode  where  to 
pitch  our  tents,  and  pasture  our  flocks.  The  clear  soft  eyes  of  the  fair  girl 
glistened  with  pleasure  at  each  picturesque  view,  each  change  of  earth  and 
sky,  each  new  aspect  of  civilization  and  its  results,  as  they  were  presented 
to  her. 

Fitzhenry  —  or  as  he  approaches  the  old  world,  so  long  deserted  by  him, 
he  may  resume  his  title  — Lord  Lodore  had  quitted  his  abode  in  the  Illinois 
upon  the  spur  of  the  moment ;  he  had  left  his  peaceful  dwelling  impatiently, 
and  in  haste,  giving  himself  no  time  for  second  thoughts — scarcely  for 
recollection.  As  the  fever  of  his  mind  subsided,  he  saw  no  cause  to  repent 
his  proceeding,  and  yet  he  began  to  look  forward  with  an  anxious  and  fore- 
boding mind.  He  had  become  aware  that  the  village  of  the  Illinois  was 
not  the  scene  fitted  for  the  development  of  his  daughter's  first  social  feel- 
ings, and  that  he  ought  to  take  her  among  the  educated  and  refined,  to 
give  her  a  chance  for  happiness.  A  Gertrude  or  an  Haidee,  brought  up  in 
the  wilds,  innocent  and  free,  and  bestowing  the  treasure  of  their  hearts  on 
some  accomplished  stranger,  brought  on  purpose  to  realize  the  ideal  of  their 
dreamy  existences,  is  a  picture  of  beauty,  that  requires  a  miracle  to  change 
into  an  actual  event  in  life ;  and  that  one  ?o  pure,  so  girileless,  and  so 


LODORE.  55 

inexperienced  as  Ethel,  should,  in  sheer  ignorance,  give  her  affections 
away  unworthily,  \yas  a  danger  to  be  avoided  beyond  all  others.  White- 
lock  had  performed  the  part  of  the  wandering  stranger,  but  he  was  ill-fitted 
for  it;  and  Lodore's  first  idea  was  to  hurry  his  daughter  away  before  she 
should  invest  him,  or  any  otli3r,  with  attributes  of  glory,  drawn  from  her 
own  imagination  and  sensibility,  wholly  beyond  his  merits. 

This  was  done.  Father  and  daughter  were  on  their  way  to  New- York, 
having  bid  an  eternal  adieu  to  the  savannas  and  forests  of  the  west.  For 
a  time,  Lodore's  thoughts  were  haunted  by  the  image  of  the  home  they  had 
left..  The  murmuring  of  its  stream  was  in  his  ears,  the  shape  of  each  dis- 
tant hill,  the  grouping  of  the  trees,  surrounding  the  wide-spread  prairie,  the 
winding  pathway  and  trellised  arbour  were  before  his  eyes,  and  he  thought 
of  the  changes  that  the  seasons  would  operate  around,  and  of  his  future 
plans  unfulfilled,  as  any  home-bred  farmer  might,  when  his  lease  was  out, 
and  he  was  forced  to  remove  to  another  country. 

As  their  steps  drew  near  the  city  which  was  their  destination,  these 
recollections  became  fainter,  and,  except  in  discourse  with  Ethel,  when  their 
talk  usually  recurred  to  the  prairie,  and  their  late  home,  he  began  to  antici- 
pate the  future,  and  to  reflect  upon  the  results  of  his  present  journey. 

Whither  was  he  about  to  go  ?  To  England  ?  What  reception  should 
he  there  meet  ?  and  under  what  auspices  introduce  his  child  to  her  native 
country  ?  There  was  a  stain  upon  his  reputation  that  no  future  conduct 
could  efface.  The  name  of  Lodore  was  a  by- word  and  a  mark  for  scorn ; 
ct  was  introduced  with  a  sneer,  followed  by  calumny  and  rebuke.  It  could 
not  even  be  forgotten.  His  wife  had  remained  to  keep  alive  the  censure 
or  derision  attached  to  it  He,  it  is  true,  might  have  ceased  to  live  in  the 
memories  of  any.  He  did  not  imagine  that  his  idea  ever  recurred  to  the 
thoughtless  throng,  whose  very  name  and  identity  were  changed  by  the 
lapse  of  twelve  years.  But  when  it  was  mentioned,  when  he  should  awa- 
ken the  forgotten  sound  by  his  presence,  the  echo  of  shame  linked  to  it 
would  awaken  also;  the  love  of  a  sensation  so  rife  among  the  wealthy 
and  idle,  must  swell  the  sound,  and  Ethel  would  be  led  on  the  world's  stage 
by  one  who  was  the  object  of  its  opprobrium. 

What  then  should  he  do  ?  Solicit  Lady  Lodore  to  reeeive  and  bring 
out  her  daughter?  Deprive  himself  of  her  society;  and  after  having 
guarded  her  unassailed  infancy,  desert  her  side  at  the  moment  when  dan- 
gers grew  thick,  and  her  mother's  example  would  operate  most  detrimen- 
tally on  her  ?  He  thought  of  his  sister,  with  whom  he  kept  ud  a  regular 
though  infrequent  correspondence.  She  was  ill  fitted  to  guide  a  young 
beauty  on  a  path  which  she  had  never  trod.  He  thought  of  France,  Italy, 
and  Germany,  and  how  he  might  travel  about  with  her  during  the  two  or 
three  succeeding  years,  enlarging  and  storing  her  mind,  and  protracting 
the  hippy  light-hearted  years  of  youth.  His  own  experience  on  the  con- 
tinent would  facilitate  this  plan  ;  and  though  it  presented,  even  on  this 
very  account,  a  variety  of  objections,  it  was  that  to  which  he  felt  .most 
attracted. 

There  was  yet  another  —  another  image  and  another  prospect  to  which 
he  turned  with  a  kind  of  gasping  sensation,  which  was  now  a  shrinking 
aversion  to  —  now  an  ardent,  desire  for,  its  fulfilment.  This  was  the  pro- 
ject of  a  reconciliation  with  Cornelia,  and  that  they  should  henceforth  unite 
in  their  labours  to  render  each  other  and  their  child  happy. 

Twelve  years  had  passed  since  their  separation  :  twelve  years,  which 
hid  led  him  from  the  prime  of  life  to  its  decline  —  which  forced  Cornelia 
to  number,  instead  of  nineteen,  more  than  thirty  years  —  bringing  her 
from  crude  youth  to  fullest  maturity.  What  changes  might  not  time  have 
operated  in  her  mind!  Latterly  no  intercourse  had  passvd  between  them, 
they  were  as  dead  to  each  other ;  and  yet  the  fact,  of  the  existence  of  either 


56  LODORE. 

was  a  paramount  law  with  both,  ruling  their  actions  and  preventing  them 
from  forming  any  new  tie.  Cornelia  might  be  tired  of  independence,  have 
discovered  the  hollowness  of  her  mother's  system,  and  desire,  but  that 
pride  prevented  her,  a  reunion  with  her  long-exiled  husband.  Her  under- 
standing was  good  ;  intercourse  with  the  world  had  probably  operated  to 
cultivate  and  enlarge  it  —  maternal  love  might  reign  in  full  force,  causing 
her  heart  to  yearn  towards  the  blooming  Ethel,  and  a  thousand  untold  sor- 
rows might  make  her  regard  the  affection  of  he-  child's  father,  as  the  prop, 
The  shelter,  the  haven,  where  to  find  peace,  if  not  happiness. 

A  fid  yet  Cornelia  was  still  young,  still  beautiful,  still  admired :  he  was 
on  the  wane  —  a  healthy  life  had  preserved  the  uprightness  of  his  form  3  d 
the  spring  of  Ms  limbs;  hut  his  countenance,  how  changed  from  the  Loci  jre 
who  pledged  his  faitb  tc  her  in  the  rustic  church  at  Rhyaider  Gowy !  The 
meltins;  softness  of  his  dark  eyes  was  altered  to  mere  sadness  —  his  brow, 
from  which  the  hair  had  retreated,  was  delved  by  a  thousand  lines  ;  gray 
sprinkled  his  black  hair,  —  a  wintry  morning  stealing  drearily  upon  night 
each  year  had  left  its  trace,  and  with  no  PraxiteWan  hand,  engraven  lines 
upon  the  rounded  cheek,  and  sunk  and  diminished  the  full  eye.  Twelve 
years  had  scarcely  operated  so  great  a  change  as  here  described  ;  but  thus 
he  painted  it  to  himself,  exaggerating  and  deforming  the  image  his  minor 
presented  —  and  where  others  had  only  marked  the  indications  of  a  thought- 
ful mind,  and  the  traces  of  over-wrought  sensibility,  he  beheld  careful  fur- 
rows and  age-worn  wrinkles. 

And  v/as  he  thus  to  claim  the  beautiful,  the  courted  —  she  who  still 
seigned  supreme  on  Love's  own  throne?  and  to  whom,  so  had  he  been  told, 
time  had  brought  increased  eharms  as  its  gift,  strewing  roses  and  fragrance 
on  her  lovely  head,  so  proving  that  neither  grief  nor  passion  had  disturbed 
the  proud  serenity  of  her  heart. 

Lodore  had  lived  many  years  the  life  of  a  recluse,  having  given  up  ambi- 
tion, hope,  almost  life  itself,  inasmuch  as  that  existence  is  scarcelv  to  be 
termed  life,  which  does  not  bring  us  into  intimate  connexion  with  our  fellow- 
creatures,  nor  develop  in  its  progress  some  plan  of  present  aetion  or  antici- 
pation for  the  future.  He  was  roused  from  his  lethargy  as  he  approached 
peopled  cities;  a  desire  to  mingle  again  in  human  affairs  was  awakened, 
together  with  an  impatience  under  the  obscurity  to  which  he  had  condemned 
Mmseif.  He  grew  at  last  to  despise  his  supineness,  which  had  prevented 
him  from  struggling  with  and  vanquishing  his  adverse  fortunes.  rHe  re- 
solved no  longer  to  be  weighed  down  by  the  fear  of  obloquy,  while  he  was 
conscious  of  the  bravery  and  determination  of  his  soul,  and  with  what  lofty 
indignation  he  was  prepared  to  sweep  away  the  stigma  attached  to  him? 
and  to  assert  the  brightness  of  his  honour.  This,  for  his  daughter's  sake, 
as  well  as  for  his  own,  he  determined  to  do. 

He  had  no  wish,  however,  to  enter  upon  the  task  in  America.  His  na- 
tive country  must  be  the  scene  of  his  exertions,  as  to  reassert  himself  among 
his  countrymen  was  their  object.  He  felt,  also,  that,  from  the  beginning, 
he  must  take  no  false  step  ;  and  it  behoove  J  him  fully  to  understand  the 
state  of  things  in  England  as  regarded  him,  before  he  presented  himself 
He  delayed  his  voyage,  therefore,  till  he  had  exchanged  letters  v/ith  Europe. 
He  wrote  to  his  sister,  immediately  on  arriving  at  Ne.^-York,  asking  foi* 
intelligence  concerning  Lady  Lodore ;  and  communicating  his  intention  to 
return  immediately,  and,  if  possible,  to  effect  a  reconcifiai^n  with  his 
estranged  wife.  He  besought  an  immediate  reply,  as  he  did  not  wish  to 
defer  his  voyage  beyond  the  spring  months. 

Having  sent  this  letter,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  society  of  his  daughter,, 
He  occupied  himself  by  endeavouring  to  form  her  for  the  new  scenes  ors 
which  she  was  about,  to  enter,  and  to  divest  her  of  the  first  raw  astonish- 
ment excited  by  the  contrast  formed  by  the  busy,  commercial  eastern,  "with 


LODORE.  57 

the  majestic  tranquillity  of  the  western  portion  of  the  new  world.  He  wished 
to  accu  ,tom  her  to  mingle  with  her  fellow-c.eatures  with  ease  and  dignity  ; 
and  he  sou  iht  to  enlarge  her  mind,  and  to  excite  her  curiosity,  by  introduc- 
ing her  to\he  effects  of  civilization.  He  would  willingly  have  formed 
acquaintances  for  ner  sake,  but  that  such  a  circumstance  might  interfere 
with  the  incognito  he  meant  to  preserve  while  away  from  his  native  coun- 
try. We  can  never  divest  ourselves  of  our  identity  and  consciousness,  and 
are  apt  to  fancy  that  others  are  equally  alive  to  our  peculiar  individuality. 
It  was  not  probable  that  the  name  of  Lodore,  or  Fitzhenry,  should  bo  known 
in  New- York  ;  but  as  the  title  had  been  bestowed  as  a  reward  for  victories 
obtained  over  the  Americans  he  who  bore  it  was  less  to  be  blamed  for  fan- 
cying that  they  had  heard  with  pleasure  the  story  of  his  disgrace,  and  would 
be  ready  to  visit  his  fault  with  malignant  severity. 

An  accident,  however,  brought  him  into  contact  with  an  English  lady, 
and  he  gladly  availed  himself  of  this  opportunity  to  bring  Ethel  into  the  so- 
ciety oflier  county-people.  One  day  he  received  an  elegant  little  note, 
such  as  are  written  in  London  by  the  fashionable  and  the  fair,  which,  with 
miny  apologies,  contained  a  request.  The  writer  had  heard  that  he  was 
about  to  return  to  England  with  his  daughter.  .Vould  he  refuse  to  take 
under  his  charge  a  young  lady,  who  was  desirous  (  f  returning  thither  ?  The 
distance  from  their  native  land  drew  English  people  together,  and  usually 
made  them  kindly  disposed  towards  each  other.  The  circumstances  under 
which  this  request  was  made  were  peculiar;  and  if  he  would  call  to  hear 
them  explained,  his  interest  would  be  excited,  and  he  would  not  refuse  a  fa- 
vour which  would  lay  the  writer  under  the  deepest  obligation. 

Lodore  answered  this  application  in  person.  He  found  an  English  family 
residing  in  one  of  the  best  streets  of  New- York,  and  was  introduced  to  the 
lady  who  had  addressed  him.  Her  story,  the  occasion  of  her  request,  was  told 
without  reserve.  Her  husband's  family  had  formerly  been  American  royal- 
ists, refu  ^es  in  ^n^land,  where  they  had  lived  poor  and  forgotten.  A  brother 
of  his  father  had  remained  behind  in  the  new  country,  and  acquired  a  large 
fortune.  He  had  lived  to  extreme  old  age ;  and  dying  childless,  left  his 
wealth  to  his  English  nephew,  upon*  condition  that  he  settled  in  America. 
This  caused  their  emigration.  While  in  England,  they  had  lived  at  Bath, 
and  been  intimate  with  a  clergyman,  who  resided  near.  This  clergyman 
was  a  singular  man  —  a  recluse,  and  a  student  —  a  man  of  ardent  soul,  held 
down  by  a  timid,  nervous  disposition.  He  was  an  outcast  from  his  family, 
w'lich  was  wealthy  and  of  good  station,  on  account  of  having  formed  a  mes- 
alliance How  indeed  he' could  have  married  his  unequal  partner  was 
matter  of  excessive  wonder.  She  was  illiterate  and  vulgar  —  coarse-mind- 
ed though  crood-natured.  This  ill-matched  pair  had  two  daughters;  — 
one,  the  younger,  now  about  fourteen  years  old,  was  the  person  whom  it 
was i  desired  to  commit  to  Lodore's  protection. 

Th^  lady  continued  :  —  She  had  a  large  family  of  boys,  and  but  one  girl, 
of  the  acre  of  Fanny  Derham  ;  —  they  had  been  for  some  years  companions 
and  friends.  When  about  to  emigrate,  she  believed  that  she  should  benefit 
equally  her  daughter  and  her  friend,  if  she  made  the  latter  a  companion  in 
th-nr  emigration;'  With  great  reluctance,  Mr.  Derham  had  consented  to  part 
with  his  child  :  he  had  thought  it  for  her  good,  and  he  had  let  her  go.  Fanny 
obeyed  her  father.  She  manifested  no  disinclination  to  the  plan  ■  and  it 
se?m-d  as  if  the  benevolent  wishes  of  Mrs.  Greville  were  iulfilled  for  the 
benefit  of  all.  They  had  been  in  America  nearly  a  year,  and  now  Fanny 
was  to  return.  She  herself  had  borne  her  absence  from  her  father  with  for- 
titude •  yet  it  required  an  exertion  of  fortitude  to  bear  it,  which  was  destroy- 
ing the  natural  vivacity  of  her  disposition.  Gloom  gathered  oyer  her  mind  ; 
Bhe  fled  society;  she  sought  solitude,  and  spent  day  after  day  in  reverie. 
Mrs.  Greville  strove  to  rouse  her,  and  Fanny  lent  herself  with  good  grace  to 


68  LODORE. 

any  exertion  demanded  of  her ;  yet  it  was  plain,  that  even  when  she  gave 
herself  most  up  to  her  desire  to  please  her  hostess,  her  thoughts  were  far 
away,  her  eye  was  tracing  the  invisible  outline  of  objects  divided  from  her 
by  the  ocean ;  and  her  inmost  sense  was  absorbed  by  the  recollection  of  one 
far  distant ;  while  her  ear  and  voice  were  abstractedly  lent  to  those  imme- 
diately around  her.  Mrs.  Greville  endeavoured  vainly  to  amuse  and  dis- 
tract hoc  thoughts.  The  only  pleasure  which  attracted  her  young  mind  was 
st;'?y  —  a  deep  and  unremitted  application  to  those  profound  acquirements, 
t3  ffjo  knowledge  of  which  her  father  had  introduced  her. 

"When  you  know  my  young  friend,"  continued  Mrs.  Greville,  "you 
will  understand  the  force  of  character  which  renders  her  unlike  every  other 
child.  Fanny  never  was  a  child.  Mrs.  Derham  and  her  daughter  Sarah 
bustled  through  the  business  of  life  —  of  the  farm  and  the  house  ;  while  it 
devolved  on  Fanny  to  attend  to,  to  wait  upon,  her  father.  She  was  his 
pupil  —  he  her  care.  The  relation  of  parent  and  child  subsisted  between 
them,  on  a  different  footing  than  in  ordinary  cases.  Fanny  nursed  her 
father,  watched  over  his  health  and  humours,  with  the  tenderness  and 
indulgence  of  a  mother ;  while  he  instructed  her  in  the  dead  languages, 
and  other  sorts  of  abst  -use  learning,  which  seldom  make  a  part  of  a  girl's 
education.  Fanny,  to  use  her  own  singular  language,  loves  philosophy, 
and  pants  after  knowledge,  and  indulges  in  a  thousand  Platonic  dreams, 
which  I  know  noJring  about;  and  this  mysterious  and  fanciful  learning 
she  has  dwelt  upon  with  tenfold  fervour  since  her  arrival  in  America. 

"The  contrast,"  continued  Mrs.  Greville,  "between  this  wonderful,  but 
strange  girl,  and  her  parent,  is  apparent  in  nothing  more  than  the  incident 
that  made  me  have  recourse  to  your  kindness.  Fanny  pined  for  home,  and 
her  father.  The  very  air  of  America  was  distasteful  to  her  —  we  were  not 
congenial  companions.  But  she  never  expressed  discontent.  As  much  as 
she  could,  she  shut  herself  up  in  the  world  of  her  own  mind  ;  but  outwardly, 
she  was  cheerful  and  uncomplaining.  A  week  ago  we  had  letters  from  her 
parents,  requesting  her  immediate  return.  Mr.  Derham  wasted  away 
without  her  ,  his  health  was  seriously  injured  by  what,  in  feminine  dialect, 
is  called  fretting ;  and  both  he  and  her  mother  have  implored  me  to  send 
her  back  to  them  without  delay." 

Lord  Lodore  listened  with  breatmess  interest  asking  now  and  then  such 
questions  as  drew  on  Mrs.  Greville  to  farther  explanation.  He  soon  be- 
came convinced  that  he  was  called  upon  to  do  this  act  of  kindness  for  the 
daughter  of  his  former  schoolfellow  —  for  Francis  Derham,  whom  he  had 
not  known  nor  seen  sine '^  they  had  exchanged  the  visions  of  boyhood  for 
the  d:sappointing  realitie;  of  maturer  age.  And  this  was  Derham's  fate !  — 
poor,  mis-matched,  destroyed  by  a  morbid  sensibility,  an  object  of  pity  to 
his  own  young  child,  yet  adored  by  her  as  the  gentlest  and  wisest  of  men. 
How  different  —  and  yet  how  similar  —  the  destinies  of  both!  It  warmed 
the  heart  of  Lodore  to  think  that  he  should  renew  his  boyish  intimacy. 
Derham  would  not  reject  him  —  would  not  participate  in  the  world's  blind 
scorn  :  in  his  bosom  no  harsh  nor  unjust  feeling  could  have  place  ;  his  sim- 

f»le,  warm  heart  would  yearn  towards  him  as  of  yore ;  and  the  schoolfel- 
ows  became  again  all  the  world  to  each  other. 

After  this  explanation,  Mrs.  Greville  introduced  her  young  friend.  Her 
resemblance  to  her  father  was  at  first  sight  remarkable,  and  awoke  with 
greater  keenness  the  roused  sensibility  of  Lodore.  She  was  pale  and  fair  ; 
her  light,  golden  hair  clustered  in  short  ringlets  over  her  small,  well-formed 
head,  leaving  unshaded  a  high  forehead,  clear  as  opening  day.  Her  blue 
eyes  were  remarkably  light  and  penetrating,  with  defined  and  straight 
brows.  Intelligence,  or  rather  understanding,  reigned  in  every  feature; 
independence  of  thought,  and  firmness,  spoke  in  every  gesture.  She  was 
a  mere  child  in  form  and  mien  —  even  in  her  expressions  ;  but  within  heir 


LODORE,  59 

was  discernible  an  embryo  of  power,  and  a  grandeur  of  soul,  not  to  be  mis- 
taken. Simplicity  and  equability  of  temper  were  her  characteristics  :  these 
smoothed  the  ru redness  which  the  singularity  of  her  character  mi-^ht  other- 
wish  have  engendered. 

Lodore  rejoiced  in  the  strange  accident  that  gave  such  a  companion  to  his 

daughter.     Nothing  could  be  in  stronger  contrast  than  these  two  o-Jrls  • 

the  fairy  form,  the  romantic  and  yielding  sweetness  of  Ethel,  whose  cling- 
ing affections  formed  her  whole  world,  —  with  the  studious  and  abstracted 
disciple  of  ancient  learning.  Notwithstanding  this  want  of  similarity, 
they  soon  became  mutually  attached.  Lodore  was  a  link  between  them. 
He  excited  Ethel  to  admire  the  concentrated  and  independent  spirit  of  her 
new  friend;  and  entered  into  conversation  with  Fanny  on  ancient  philos- 
ophy, which  was  unintelligible  and  mysterious  to  Ethel.  The  three  be- 
came inseparable:  they  prolonged  their  excursions  in  the  neio-hbourino- 
country ;  while  each  enjoyed  peculiar  pleasures  in  the  friendship  and 
sympathy  of  their  companions. 

This  addition  to  their  society,  and  an  intimacy  cultivated  with  Mrs. 
Greville,  whose  husband  was  absent  at  Washington,  formed,  as  it  »vere,  a 
weaning  time  for  Lodore,  from  the  seclusion  of  the  Illinois.  There  he  had 
lived,  cut  off  from  the  past  and  the  future,  existing  in  the  present  only.  He 
had  been  happy  there;  cured  of  the  wounds  which  hao  penetrated  his  heart 
so  deeply,  through  the  ministration  of  all-healing  Nature.  He  felt  the 
gliding  of  the  hours  as  a  blessing  ;  and  the  occupations  of  each  day  were 
replete  with  calm  enjoyment.  He  thought  of  England,  as  a  seaman  newly 
saved  from  a  wreck  would  of  the  tempestuous  ocean,  with  fear  and  loathing, 
«and  with  heart-felt  gladness  that  Le  was  no  longer  the  sport  of  its  waves. 
He  cultivated  such  a  philosophic  turn  of  mind  as  often  brought  a  smile  of 
self-pity  on  his  lips,  at  the  recollection  of  scenes  which,  during  their  passage, 
had  prov.oked  bitter  and  burning  sensations.  What  was  all  this  strife °of 
passion,  this  eager  struggle  for  something,  he  knew  not  what,  to  him  now  ? 
The  healthy  labours  of  his  farm,  the  tranquillity  of  his  library,  the  endear- 
ing caresses  of  his  child,  were  worth  all  the  vanities  of  life. 

Thus  he  had  felt  in  the  Illinois  ;  and  now  again  he  looked  back  to  his 
undisturbed  life  there,  wondering  how  he  had  endured  its  monotonous  lone- 
liness. A  desire  for  action,  for  mingling  with  hisrfellow-men,  had  arisen  in 
his  heart.  He  felt  like  a  strong  swimmer,  who  longs  to  battle  with  the 
waves.  He  desh-ed  to  feel  and  to  exert  his  powers,  to  fill  a  space  in  the 
I ■-•  eves  of  others,  to  reassert  himself  in  their  esteem,  or  to  resent  their  scorn. 
He  could  no  longer  regard  the  past  with  imperturbability. 

Again  his  passions  were  roused,  as  bethought  of  his  mother-in-law,  of  his 
wife,  and  of  the  strange  scenes  which  had  preceded  and  caused  his  flight 
from  England.  These  ideas  had  long  occupied  his  mind,  without  occasion- 
ing any  emotion.  But  now  again  they  were  full  of  interest;  and  pain  and 
struggle  again  resulted  from  the  recollection.  At  such  times  he  was  glad 
that  Ethel  had  a  companion,  that  he  might  leave  her  and  wander  alone.  He 
became  a  prey  to  the  same  violence  of  passion,  the  same  sense  of  injury, 
and  stinging  hurry  of  thought,  which  for  twelve  years  had  ceased  to  torture 
him.  But  no  tincture  of  cowardice  entered  into  his  sensations.  His  soul 
was  set  upon  victory  over  the  evil  fortune  to  which  he  had  so  long  submitted. 
When  he  thought  of  returning  to  England,  from  which  he  had  fled  with 
dishonour,  his  cheek  tingled  as  a  thousand  images  of  insult  and  contumely 
passed  rapidly  through  his  mind,  as  likely  to  visit  him.  His  heart  swelled 
within  him  —  his  very  soul  grew  faint;  but  instead  of  desiring  to  fly  the 
anticipated  opprobrium,  he  longed  to  meet  it,  and  to  wash  out  shame,  if  need 
were,  with  his  life's  blood ;  and,  by  resolution  and  daring,  to  silence  his 
enemies,  and  redeem  his  name  from  obloquy. 

One  day,  occupied  by  such  thoughts,  he  stood  watching  that  vast  and 


00  LODORE, 

celebrated  cataract,  whose  everlasting  and  impetuous  flow  mirrored  the 
dauntless  but  rash  energy  of  his  own  soul.  A  vague  desire  of  plunging 
into  the  whirl  of  waters  agitated  him.  His  existence  appeared  to  be  a  blot 
in  the  creation  :  his  hopes,  and  fears,  and  resolves,  a  worthless  web  of  ill- 
assorted  ideas,  best  swept  away  at  once  from  the  creation.  Suddenly  his 
eye  caught  the  little  figure  of  Fanny  Dei-ham,  standing  on  a  rock  not  far 
distant,  her  meaning  eyes  fixed  on  him.  The  thunder  of  the  waters  pe- 
vented  speech;  but  as  he  drew  near  her,  he  saw  that  she  had  a  paper  in 
her  hand.  She  held  it  out  to  him  ;  a  blush  mantled  over  her  usually  pale 
countenance  a5  he  took  it ;  and  he  sprung  away  up  the  rocky  pathway. 

Lodore  cast  his  eyes  on  the  open  letter,  and  hig  own  name,  half  forgotten" 
by  him,  presented  itself  on  the  written  page.  The  letter  was  from  Fanny's 
father  —  from  Derham,  his  friend  and  schoolfellow.  His  heart  beat  fast 
as  he  read  the  words  traced  by  one  formerly  so  dear.  "  The  beloved  name 
of  Fitzhenry  "  —  thus  Derham  had  written  —  "  awakens  a  strange  conjec- 
ture. Is  not  your  kind  protector  the  friend  and  companion  of  rny  boyish 
days  ?  Is  it  not  the  long-absent  Lodore,  who  has  stretched  out  a  paternal 
hand  to  my  darling  child,  and  who  is  about  to  add  to  his  former  generous  acts 
the  dearer  one  of  restoring  my  Fanny  to  me  ?  Ask  him  this  question ;  — 
extract  this  secret  from  him.  Tell  him  how  my  chilled  heart  warms  with 
pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  a  renewal  of  our  friendship.  He  was  a  god-like 
boy  ;  daring,  generous,  and  brave.  The  remembrance  of  him  has  been  the 
bright  spot  which,  except  yourself,  is  all  of  cheering  that  has  chequered  my 
gloomy  existence.  Ask  him  whether  he  remembers  him  whose  life  he  saved 
—  whom  he  rescued  from  oppression  and  misery.  1  am  an  old  man  now, 
weighed  down  by  sorrow  and  infirmity.  Adversity  has  also  visited  him ; 
but  he  will  have  withstood  the  shocks  of  fate,  as  gallantly  as  a  mighty  ship 
stems  the  waves  of  ocean  :  while  I,  a  weather-worn  skiff,  am  battered  and 
wrecked  by  the  tempest.  From  all  you  say,  he  must  be  Lodore.  Mark  him, 
Fanny  :  if  you  see  one  lofty  in  his  mien,  yet  gracious  in  all  his  acts  ;  his 
person  adorned  by  the  noblest  attributes  of  rank  ;  full  of  dignity,  yet  devoid 
of  pride;  impatient  of  all  that  is  base  and  insolent,  but  with  a  heart  open 
as  a  woman's  to  compassion  ;  —  one  whose  slightest  word  possesses  a  charm 
to  attract  and  enchain  the  affections  :  — if  such  be  your  new  friend,  put  this 
letter  into  his  hand  ;  he  will  remember  Francis  Derham,  and  love  you  for 
my  sake,  as  well  as  for  your  own." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

It  is  our  will 
That  thus  enchains  us  to  permitted  ill. 

Shelley. 


This  was  a  new  inducement  to  bring  back  Lodore  from  the  wilds  of 
America,  to  the  remembrance  of  former  days.  The  flattering  expressions 
in  Derham's  letter  soothed  his  wounded  pride,  and  inspired  a  desire  of  asso- 
ciating once  more  with  men  who  could  appreciate  his  worth,  and  sympa- 
thize with  his  feelings.  His  spirits  became  exhilarated;  he  talked  of 
Europe,  and  his  return  thither,  with  all  the  animation  of  sanguine  youth.  It 
is  one  of  the  necessary  attributes  of  our  nature  always  to  love  what  we  have 
once  loved  ;  and  though  new  objects  and  change  in  former  ones  may  chill 
our  affections  for  a  time,  we  are  filled  with  renewed  fervour  after  every  fresh 
dipappointment,  and  feel  an  impatient  longing  to  return  to  the  cherishing 
warmth  of  our  early  attachments  ;  happy  if  we  do  not  find  emptiness  ancf 
desolation  where  we  left  life  and  hope. 


LODORE.  6i 

Ethel  had  never  been  as  happy  as  at.  the  present  time,  and  her  affection 
for  her  father  gathered  strength  from  the  confidence  which  existed  between 
them.  He  was  the  passion  of  her  soul,  the  engrossing  attachment  of  her 
loving  heart.  When  she  .saw  a  cloud  on  his  brow,  she  would  stand  by  him 
with  silent  but  pleading  tenderness,  as  if  to  ask  whether  any  exertion  of  hers 
could  dissipate  his  inquietude.  She  hung  upon  his  discourses  as  a  heavenly 
oracle,  and  welcomed  him  with  gladdened  looks  of  love,  when  he  returned 
after  any  short  absence.  Her  heart  was  bent  upon  pleasing  him,  she  had 
no  thought  or  pursuit  which  was  not  linked  with  his  participation: 

There  is  perhaps  in  the  list  of  human  sensations,  no  one  so  pure,  so  per- 
fect, and  yet  so  impassioned,  as  the  affection  of  a  child  for  its  parent,  durino- 
that  brief  interval  when  they  are  leaving  childhood,  and  have  not  yet  felt 
love.  There  is  something  so  awful  in  a  father.  His  words  are  laws,  and 
to  obey  th°m  happiness.  Reverence,  and  a  desire  to  serve,  are  mingled 
with  gratitude ;  and  duty,  without  a  flaw  or  question,~so  seconds  the  in- 
stinct of  the  heart,  as  to  render  it  imperative.  Afterwards  we  may  love,  in 
spite  of  the  faults  of  the  object  of  our^attachment ;  but  during  the  interval 
alluded  to,  we  have  not  yet  learned  to  tolerate,  but  also,  we  have  not  learned 
to  detect  faults.  All  that  a  parent  does,  appears  an  emanation  from  a  divi- 
ner world ;  while  we  fear  to  offend,  we  believe  we  have  no  right  to  be 
offended  ;  eager  to  please,  we  seek  in  return  approval  only,  and  are  too 
humble  to  demand  a  reciprocity  of  attention  ;  it  is  enough  that  we  are  per- 
mitted to  demonstrate  our  devotion.  Ethel's  heart  overflowed  with  love, 
reverence,  worship  of  her  father.  He  had  stood  in  the  wilds  of  America 
a  solitary  specimen  of  all  that  is  graceful,  cultivated,  and  wise  among  men; 
she  knew  of  nothing  that  might  compare  to  him  ;  and  the  world  without 
him  was  what  the  earth  might  be  uninformed  by  light:  he  was  its  sun,  its 
ruling  luminary.  All  this  intensity  of  feeling  existed  in  her,  without  her 
being  aware  scarcely  of  its  existence,  without  her  questioning  the  cause,  or 
reasoning  on  the  effect.  To  love  her  father  was  the  first  law  of  nature,  the 
chief  duty  of  a  child,  and  she  fulfilled  it  unconsciously,  but  more  com- 
pletely than  she  could  have  done  had  she  been  associated  with  others,  who 
might  have  shared  and  weakened  the  concentrated  sensibility  of  her  nature. 

At  length  the  packet  arrived  which  brought  Lodore  letters  from  England. 
Before  his  eyes  lay  the  closed  letter  pregnant  with  fate.  He  was  not  of  a 
disposition  to  recoil  from  certainty  ;  and  yet  for  a  few  moments  he  hesitated 
to  break  the  seals  —  appalled  by  the  magnitude  of  the  crisis  which  he  be- 
lieved to  be  at  hand. 

Latterly  the  idea  of  a  reconciliation  with  Cornelia  had  been  a  favourite  in 
his  thoughts.  The  world  was  a  painful  and  hard-tasking  school.  She 
must  have  suffered  various  disappointments,  and  endured  much  disgust, 
and  so  be  prepared  to  lend  a  willing  ear  to  his  overture.  She  was  so  very 
young  when  they  parted,  and  since  then,  had  lived  entirely  under  the  influ- 
ence of  Lady  Santerre.  But  what  had  at  one  time  proved  injurious,  might,  . 
in  course  of  years,  have  opened  her  eyes  to  the  vanity  of  the  course  which 
she  was  pursuing.  Lodore  felt  persuaded,  that  there  were  better  things  to  be 
expected  from  his  wife,  than  a  love  of  fashion  and  an  adherence  to  the 
prejudices  of  society.  He  had  failed  to  bring  her  good  qualities  to  lig^ht, 
but  time  and  events  might  have  played  the  tutor  better,  and  it  merely 
required  perhaps  a  seasonable  interference,  a  fortunate  circumstance,  to 
prove  the  truth  of  his  opinion  and  to  show  Lady  Lodore  as  generous,  mag- 
nanimous, and  devoted,  as  before  she  had  appeared  proud,  selfish,  and 
cold. 

How  few  there  are  possessed  of  any  sensibility,  who  mingle  with,  and 

are  crushed  by  the  jostling  interests  of  the  world,  who  do  not  ever  and  anon 

exclaim  with  the  Psalmist,  "Oh  for  the  wings  of  a  dove,  that  I  might  flee 

away  and  be  at  rest  I"  If  ever  such  an  aspiration  was  breathed  by  Cornelia, 

32—6 


62  LODORE. 

how  gladly,  how  fondly  would  her  husband  welcome  the  weary  llutterer, 
open  his  bosom  for  her  refuge,  and  study  to  make  her  forget  all  the  disqui- 
etudes and  follies  of  headstrong  youth ! 

This  was  a  mere  dream.  Lodore  sighed  to  think  that  his  position  would 
not  permit  him  to  afford  her  a  shelter  from  the  poisoned  arrows  of  the  world. 
She  must  come  to  him  prepared  to  suffer  much.  It  required  not  only  the 
absence  of  the  vulgar  worldliness  of  Lady  Santerre,  but  great  strength  of 
mind  to  forgive  the  past,  and  strong  affection  to  endure  the  present.  He 
could  only  invite  her  to  share  the  lot  of  a  dishonoured  man,  to  become  a 
partner  in  the  struggle  which  he  was  prepared  to  enter  upon,  to  regain  his 
lost  reputation.  This  was  no  cheering  prospect.  .  Pride  and  generosity 
equally  forbade  his  endeavouring  to  persuade  his  wife  to  quit  a  course  of  life 
the  liked,  to  enter  upon  a  'scene  of  trials  and  sorrows  with  one  for  whom  she 
did  not  care. 

All  these  conjectures  had  long  occupied  him,  but  here  was  certainty  - 
the  letter  in  his  hand.     It  was  sealed  with  black,  and  a  tremulous  shudder 
ran  through  his  frame  as  he  tore  it  open.     He  soon  satisfied  himself —  Cor- 
nelia lived  :  he  breathed  freely  again,  and  proceeded  more  calmly  to  make 
himself  master  of  the  intelligence  which  the  paper  he  held  contained. 

Cornelia  lived ;  but  his  sister  announced  a  death  which  he  believed  would 
change  the  colour  of  his  life.     Lady  Santerre  was  no  more. 

Yes,  Cornelia  was  alive  :  the  bride  that  had  stood  beside  him  at  the  altar 
— =■  whose  hand  he  had  held  while  he  pronounced  his  vows  —  with  whom 
he  had  domesticated  for  years — the  mother  of  his  child  still  lived.  The 
cold  consuming  grave  did  not  wrap  her  lovely  form.  The  idea  of  her  death, 
which  the  appearance  of  the  black  seal  conveyed  suddenly  to  his  imagina- 
tion, had  been  appalling  beyond  words.  For  the  last  few  weeks  his  mind 
had  been  filled  with  her  image  ;  his  thoughts  had  fed  upon  the  hope  that 
they  should  meet  once  more.  Had  she  died  while  he  was  living  in  inactive 
seclusion  in  the  Illinois,  lie  might  have  been  less  moved  ;  his  vivid  fancy, 
his  passionate  heart,  could  not  spare  her  now,  without  a  pang  of  agony. 
It  passed  away,  and  his  mind  reverted  to  the  actual  situation  in  which  they 
were  placed  by  the  death  of  his  mother-in-law.  Reconciliation  had  become 
easy  by  the  removal  of  that  fatal  barrier.  He  felt  assured  that  he  could 
acquire  Cornelia's  confidence,  win  her  love,  and  administer  to  her  happiness ; 
he  determined  to  leave  nothing  untried  to  bring  about  so  desirable  a  con- 
clusion to  their  long  and  dreary  alienation.  The  one  insuperable  obstacle 
was  gone  ;  their  daughter,  that  loveliest  link,  that  soft  silken  tie,  remained: 
Cornelia  must  welcome  with  maternal  delight  this  better  portion  of  herself. 

He  glanced  over  his  sister  Elizabeth's  letter  announcing  the  death  oi 
Lady  Santerre,  and  then  read  the  one  enclosed  from  Lady  Lodore  to  her 
sister-in-law.  It  was  cold,  but  very  decisive.  She  thanked  her  first  for  the 
inquiries  she  had  made,  and  then  proceeded  to  say,  that  she  took  this 
opportunity,  the  only  one  likely  to  present  itself,  of  expressing  what  her 
own  feelings  were  on  this  melancholy  occasion.  "  I  am  afraid,"  she  said, 
"  that  your  brother  will  look  on  the  death  of  my  dearest  mother  as  opening 
the  door  to  our  reunion.  Some  words  in  your  letter  seem  indeed  to  intimate 
this,  or  I  should  have  hoped  that  I  was  entirely  forgotten.  I  trust  that  I  am 
mistaken.  My  earnest  desire  is,  that  my  natural  grief,  and  the  tranquillity 
which  I  try  to  secure  for  myself,  may  not  be  disturbed  by  fruitless  endeavours 
to  bring  about  what  can  never  be.  My  determination  may  be  supposed  to 
arise  from  pride  and  implacable  resentment :  perhaps  it  does,  but  I  feel  it 
impossible  that  we  should  ever  be  any  thing  but  strangers  to  each  other. 
I  will  not  complain,  and  1  wish  to  .avoid  harsh  allusions,  but  respect  for  her 
I  have  lost,  and  a  sense  of  undeserved  wrong,  are  paramount  with  me. 
I  shall  never  intrude  upon  him.  Persuade  him  that  it  will  be  unmanly 
cruelty  to  force  himself,  even  by  a  letter,  on  me." 


LODORE.  63 

From  this  violent  declaration  of  an  unforgiving  heart,  Lodore  turned  to 
EliMtbeth's  letter.  This  excellent  lady,  to  whom  the  names  of  dissipation 
and  the  metropolis  were  synonymous,  and  who  knew  as  much  of  the  world 
as  Parson  Adams,  assured  her  brother,  that  Cornelia,  far  from  feeling 
deeply  the  blow  of  her  mother's  death,  was  pursuing  her  giddy  course  with 
greater  pertinacity  than  ever.  Surrounded  by  flatterers,  given  up  to 
pleasure,  she  naturally  shrunk  from  bein'j;  reminded  of  her  exiled  husband 
and  her  forgotten  child.  Her  letter  showed  how  ill"  she  deserved  the  ten- 
derness and  interest  which  Lodore  had  expressed.  She  was  a  second  Lady 
Santerre,  without  being;;  gifted  with  that  maternal  affection,  which  had  in 
some  degree  dignified  that  person's  character. 

Elizabeth  lamented  that  his  wife  s  hardness  of  heart  might  prevent  his 
proposed  visit  to  England.  She  did  not  like  to  urge  it  —  it  might  seem 
selfish  :  hitherto  she  had  let  herself  and  her  sorrows  go  for  nothing  ;  could 
she  think  of  her  own  gratification,  while  her  brother  was  suffering  so  much 
calamity  ?  She  was  growing  old  —  indeed  she  was  old  —  she  had  no  kin 
around  her  —  early  friends  were  dead  or  lost  to  her  —  she  had  nothing  to 
live  on  but  the  recollection  of  her  brother ;  she  should  think  herself  blessed 
could  she  see  him  once  more  before  she  died. 

"  O  my  dear  brother  Henry,"  continued  the  kind-hearted  lady,  "  if  you 
would  but  say  the  word  —  the  sea  is  nothing  ;  people  older  than  I  —  and  1 
am  not  at  all  infirm  —  make  the  voyage.  Let  me  come  to  America  —  let 
me  embrace  my  niece,  and  see  you  once  again  —  let  me  share  your  dear 
home  in  the  Illinois,  which  I  see  every  night  in  my  dreams.  I  should  grieve 
to  be  a  burden  to  you,  but  it  would  be  my  endeavour  to  prove  a  comfort 
and  a  help." 

Lodore  read  both  of  these  letters,  one  after  the  other,  again  and  acrain. 
He  resolved  on  going  to  England  immediately.  Either  Cornelia  was  en 
tirely  cal'ous  and  worthless,  and  so  to  be  discarded  from  his  heart  for  ever, 
or  after  her  first  bitter  feelings  on  her  mother's  death  were  over,  she  would 
soften  towards  her  child,  or  there  was  some  dread  secret  feeling  that  in- 
fluenced her,  and  he  must  save  her  from  calamity  and  wretchedness.  One 
of  those  changes  of  feeling  to  which  the  character  of  Lodore  was  peculiarly 
subject,  came  over  him.  Lady  Santerre  was  dead  —  Cornelia  was  alone. 
A  thousand  dangers  surrounded  her.  It  appeared  to  him  that  his  first  im- 
perious duty  was  to  offer  himself  to  guard  and  watch  over  her.  He  resolved 
to  leave  nothing  untried  to  make  her  happy.  He  would  give  up  Ethel  to 
her  —  he  would  gratify  every  wish  she  could  frame  —  pour  out  benefits 
lavishly  before  her  —  force  her  to  see  in  him  a  benefactor  and  a  friend  ;  and 
at  last,  his  heart  whispered,  induce  her  to  assume  again  the  duties  of  a 
wife 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


•What  Is  peace  :    When  life  is  over, 
And  love  ceases  to  rebel, 
Let  the  last  faint  sigh  discover, 
Which  precedes  the  passing  knell. 

Wordsworth. 


Lodore  was  henceforth  animated  by  a  new  spirit  of  hope.  His  projects 
and  resolves  gave  him  something  to  live  for.  He  looked  forward  with  pleas- 
ure; feeling,  on  his  expected  return  to  his  native  country,  as  the  tabled 
vovager,  who  knew  that  he  ought  to  be  contented  in  the  fair  island  where 
chance  had  thrown  him,  and  yet  who  hailed  with  rapture  the  approach  ot 


64  LODORE. 

the  sail  that  was  to  bear  him  back  to  the  miseries  of  social  life.  He  reflected 
that  he  had  in  all  probability  many  years  before  him,  and  he  was  earnest 
that  the  decline  of  his  life  should,  by  a  display  of  prudence  and  virtuous 
exertion,  cause  the  errors  of  his  earlier  manhood  to  be  forgotten. 

This  inspiriting  tone  of  mind  was  very  congenial  to  Ethel.  The  pros- 
pects that  occupied  her  father  had  a  definite  horizon  :  all  was  vague  and 
misty  to  her  eyes,  yet  beautiful  and  alluring.  Lodore  gave  no  outline  of  his 
pirns  :  he  never  named  her  mother.  Uncertain  himself  he  was  unwilling 
to  excite  feelings  in  Ethel's  mind,  to  be  afterwards  checked  and  disappointed. 
He  painted  the  future  in  gay  colours,  but  left  it  in  all  the  dimness  most 
favourable  for  an  ardent  imagination  to  exercise  itself  upon. 

In  o  very  few  days  they  were  to  sail  for  England.  Their  passage  was 
engaged.  Lodore  had  written  to  his  sister  to  announce  his  return.  He 
spoke  of  Longfield,  and  of  her  kind  and  gentle  aunt,  to  Ethel,  and  she,  who, 
like  Miranda,  had  known  no  relative  or  intimate  except  her  father,  warmed 
with  pleasure  to  find  new  ties  bind  her  to  her  fellov  -creatures.  She  ques- 
tioned her  father,  and  he,  excited  by  his  own  newly-awakened  emotions, 
dilated  eloquently  on  the  joys  of  his  young  days,  and  pleased  Fanny,  as 
well  as  his  own  daughter,  by  a  detail  of  boyish  pranks  and  adventures 
which  his  favourite  schoolfellow  shared.  The  Ireedom  he  enjoyed  in  his 
paternal  home,  the  worship  that  waited  on  him  there,  the  large  space  which 
in  early  youth  he  appeared  to  fill  in  all  men's  eyes,  the  buoyancy  and  inno- 
cence associated  with  those  unshadowed  days,  painted  them  to  his  memory 
cloudless  and  bright.  It  would  be  to  renew  them  to  see  Longfield  again,  — 
to  clasp  once  more  the  hand  of  Francis  Derham. 

A  kind  of  holyday  and  festal  feeling  was  diffused  through  Ethel's  mind 
by  the  vivid  descriptions  and  frank  communications  of  her  father.  She  felt 
as  if  about  to  enter  Paradise.  America  grew  dim  and  sombre  in  her  eyes  ; 
its  forests,  lakes,  and  wilds,  were  empty  and  silent,  while  England  swarmed 
with  a  thousand  lovely  forms  of  pleasure.  Her  father  strewed  a  downy 
velvet  path  for  her,  which  she  trod  with  light,  girlish  steps,  happy  in  the 
present  hour,  happier  in  the  anticipated  future. 

A  few  days  before  the  party  were  to  sail,  Lodore  and  his  daughter  dined 
with  Mrs.  Greville.  As  if  they  held  the  reins,  and  could  curb  the  course  ot 
fate,  each  and  all  were  filled  with  hilarity.  Lodore  had  forgotten  Theodora 
and  her  son  —  had  cast  from  his  recollection  the  long  train  of  misery,  injury, 
and  final  ruin,  which  for  so  long  had  occupied  his  whole  thoughts.  He  was 
in  his  own  eyes  no  longer  the  branded  exile.  A  strange  distortion  of  vision 
blinded  this  unfortunate  man  to  the  truth,  which  experience  so  perpetually 
teaches  us,  that  the  consequences  of  our  actions  never  die:  that  repentance 
and  time  may  paint  them  to  us  in  different  shapes  ;  but  though  we  shut  our 
eyes,  they  are  still  beside  us,  helping  the  inexorable  destinies  to  spin  the 
fatal  thread,  and  sharpening  the  implement  which  is  to  cut  it  asunder. 

Lodore  lived  the  morning  of  that  day,  (it  was  the  first  of  May,  realizing 
by  its  brilliancy  and  sweets  the  favourite  month  of  the  poets,)  as  if  many 
a  morning  throughout  the  changeful  seasons  was  to  be  his.  Some  time  he 
spent  on  board  the  vessel  in  which  he  was  to  sail ;  seeing  that  all  the 
arrangements  which  he  had  ordered  for  Ethel  and*Fanny's  comfort  were 
perfected ;  then  father  and  daughter  rode  out  together.  Often  did  Ethel 
try  to  remember  every  word  of  the  conversation  held  during  that  ride.  It 
concerned  the  fair  fields  of  England,  the  splendours  of  Italy,  the  refinements 
and  pleasures  of  Europe.  "  When  we  are  in  London,"  —  "  When  we  shall 
visit  Naples,"  —  such  phrases  perpetually  occurred.  It  was  Lodore's  plan 
to  induce  Cornelia  to  travel  with  him,  and  to  invite  Mr.  Derham  and  Fanny 
to  be  their  companions  ;  a  warmer  climate  would  benefit  his  friend's  health 
"  And  for  worlds,"  he  said,  "  I  would  not  lose  Derham.     It  is  the  joy  of 


LODORE.  65 

my  life  to  think  that  by  my  return  to  my  native  country  I  secure  to  myself 
the  society  of  this  excellent  and  oppressed  man." 

At  six  o'clock  Lodore  and  Ethel  repaired  to  Mrs.  Greville's  house.  It 
had  been  intended  that  no  other  persons  should  be  invited,  but  th  jnex- 
pected  arrival  of  some  friends  from  Washington,  about  to  sail  to  England, 
had  obliged  the  ladv  to  alter  this  arrangement.  The  new  guests  consisted 
of  an  En  dish  gentleman  and  his  wife,  and  one  other,  an  American,  who 
had  filled  a  diplomatic  situation  in  London.  Annoyed  by  the  sight  of 
strangers,  Lodore  kept  apart,  conversing  with  Ethel  and  Fannv. 

At  dinner  he  sat  opposite  to  the  American.  There  was  something  in 
this  man's  physiognomy  peculiarly  disagreeable  to  him.  He  was  not  a 
pleasing-looking  man,  but  that  was  not  all.  Lodore  fancied  that  he  must 
nave  seen  hi  n  before  under  very  painful  circumstances.  He  felt  inclined 
to  quarrel  wth  him  — he  knew  not  why  ;  and  was  disturbed  ai  I  dissatisfied 
with  himself  and  every  body.  The  first  words  which  the  raun  spoke  were 
as  an  electric  shock  to  him.  Twelve  long  years  rolled  back  —  the  past 
became  the  present  once  again.  This  very  American  had  sat  opposite  to 
hi  n  at  the  memorable  dinner  at  the  Russian  ambassador's.  At  the  moment 
when  he  had  been  hurried  away  by  the  fury  of  his  passion  against  Casimir, 
ne  re  nembered  to  have  seen  a  sarcastic  sneer  on  bis  face,  as  the  republican 
marked  the  arrogance  of  fie  English  noble.  «Lodore  had  been  ready  then 
to  turn  the  fire  of  his  resentment  on  the  insolent  observer;  but  when  the 
occasion  passed  away  he  had  entirely  forgotten  him,  till  now  he  rose  like 
a  ghost  to  remind  him  of  former  pains  and  crimes. 

The  lapse  of  years  had  scarce.ly  altered  this  person.  His  hair  was 
grizzled,  but  it  crowned  his  head  in  the  same  rough  abundance  as  formerly. 
His  face,  which  looked  as  if  carved  out  of  wood,  strongly  and  deeply  lined, 
showed  no  tokens  of  a  more  advanced  age.  He  was  then  elderly-looking 
for  a  middle-aged  man;  he  was  now  young-looking  for  an  elderly  man. 
NntU'-e  had  disdained  to  change  an  aspect  which  showed  so  little  of  her 
divinitv,  and  which  no  wrinkles  nor  withering  could  mar.  Lodore,  turning 
from  this  apparition,  caught  the  reflection  of  himself  in  an  opposite  mirror. 
Association  of  ideas  had  made  him  unconsciously  expect  to  behold  the 
jealous  husband  of  Cornelia.  How  changed,  how  passion-worn  and  tar- 
nished was  the  countenance  that  met  his  eyes.  He  recovered  his  self- 
possession  as  he  became  persuaded  that  this  chance  visitant,  who  had  seen 
him  but  once,  wou'd  be  totally  unable  to  recognise  him. 

This  unwelcome  guest  had  been  attached  to  the  American  embassy  in 
England,  and  had  but  lately  returned  to  New- York.  He  was  full  of  dislike 
of  the  English  — contempt  for  them,  and  pride  in  his  countrymen,  being  the 
cherished  feelings  of  his  mind  ;  the  latter  he  held  up  to  admiration  from 
prejudiced  views ;  a  natural  propensity  to  envy  and  depreciation  led  him  to 
det-act  from  the  former.  He  was,  in  short,  a  most  disagreeable  person ; 
and  his  insulting  observations  on  his  country  moved  Lodore's  spleen,  while 
his  mind  was  shaken  from  its  balance  by  the  sight  of  one  who  reminded 
him  of  his  past  errors  and  ruin.  He  was  fast  advancing  to  a  state  of  irrita- 
bilitv,  when  he  should  lose  all  command  over  himself.  He  felt  this,  and 
tried  to  subdue  the  impetuous  rush  of  bitterness  whic',1  agitated  him ;  he 
remembered  that  he  must  expect  many  trials  like  this,  and  that,  rightly 
considered,  this  was  a  good  school  wherein  he  might  tutor  himself  t^  sslf- 

Eossession  and  firmness.     He  went  to  another  extreme,  and  addrssing 
inns  elf  to.  and  arguing  with,  the  object  of  his  dislike,  endeavoured  to  gloss 
over  to  himself  the  rising  violence  of  his  impassioned  temper. 

The  ladies  retired,  and  the  gentlemen  entered  upon  a  political  discussion 

in  some  event  passing  in  Europe.     The  English  guest  took  his  departure 

earlv,  and  Lodore  and  the  other  continued  to  converse.    Some  mention  wa3 

made  of  newspapers  newly  arrived,  and  the  American  proposed  that  thej 

6* 


66  LODORE. 

should  repair  to  the  coffee-house  to  see  them.  Lodore  agreed :  he  thought 
thai,  this  would  be  a  good  opportunity  to  shake  off  his  distasteful  companion. 

The  coffee-room  contained  nearly  twent}^  persons.  They  were  in  loud 
discussion  upon  a  question  of  European  politics,  and  reviling  England  and 
her  manners  in  the  most  contemptuous  terms  This  was  not  balm  for 
Lodore's  sore  feelings.  His  heait  swelled  indignantly  at  the  sarcasms 
which  these  strangers  levelled  against  his  native  country;  he  felt  as  if  he 
was  acting  a  coward's  part  while  he  listened  tamely.  His  companion  soon 
entered  with  vehemence  into  the  conversation  ;  and  the  noble,  who  was 
longing  to  quarrel  with  him,  now  drew  himself  up  with  forced  composure, 
fixing  his  full  meaning  eyes  upon  the  speaker,  hoping  by  his  quiescence  to 
entice  him  into  expressions  which  he  would  insist  on  being  retracted.  Bis 
temper  by  this  time  entirely  mastered  him.  In  a  calmer  moment  he  would 
have  despised  himself  for  being  influenced,  by  such  a  man,  to  any  sentiment 
except  contempt;  but  the  tempest  was  abroad,  and  all  sobriety  of  feeling 
was  swept  away  like  chaff  before  the  wind. 

Mr.  Hatfield,  —  such  was  the  American's  name,  —  peceiving  that  he  was 
listened  to,  entered  with  great  delight  on  his  favourite  topic,  a  furious  and 
insolent  phillippic  against  England,  in  mass  and  in  detail.  Lodore  still 
listened;  there  was  a  dry  sneer  in  the  tones  of  the  speaker's  voice,  that 
thrilled  him  with  hate  and  rage.  At  length,  by  some  chance  reverting  to  the 
successful  struggle  America  had  made  for  her  independence,  and  ridiculing 
the  resistance  of  the  English  on  the  occasion,  Hatfield  named  Lodore. 

" Lodore  !"  cried  one  of  the  bystanders;  " Fitzhenry  was  the  name  of 
the  man  who  took  the  Oronooko." 

"  Aye,  Fitzhenry  it  was,"  said  Hatfield,  "  Lodore  is  his  nickname  ;  King 
George's  bit  of  gilt  gingerbread,  which  mightily  pleased  the  sapient  mariner. 
An  Englishman  thinks  himself  honoured  when  he  changes  one  name  for 
another.  Admiral  Fitzhenry  was  the  scum  of  the  earth  —  Lord  Lodore  a 
pillar  of  state.  Pity  that  infamy  should  so  soon  have  blackened  the  glori- 
ous title!" 

Lodore's  pale  cheek  suddenly  flushed  at  these  words,  and  then  blanched 
again,  as  with  compressed  lips  he  resolved  to  hear  yet  more,  till  the  insult 
should  no  longer  be  equivocal.  The  word  "  infamy"  was  echoed  from 
various  lips.  Hatfield  found  that  he  had  ensured  a  hearing,  and  glad  of  an 
audience,  he  went  on  to  relate  his  story  —  it  was  of  the  dinner  at  the  Rus- 
sian ambassador's —  of  the  intemperate  violence  of  Lodore  —  and  the 
youthful  Lyzinski's  wrongs.  "  I  saw  the  blow  given,"  continued  the  nar- 
rator "and  I  would  have  caned  the  fellow  on  the  spot,  had  I  not  thought 
that  a  bullet  would  do  his  business  better.  But  when  it  came  to  that,  Lon- 
don was  regaled  by  an  event  which  could  not  have  happened  here,  for  we 
have  no  such  cowards  among  us.  My  lord  was  not  to  be  found  —  he  had 
absconded  —  sneaked  offlike  a  mean-spirited  pitiful  scoundrel !" 

The  words  were  still  on  the  man's  lips,  when  a  blow,  sudden  and  unex- 
pected, extended  him  on  the  floor.  After  this  swiftly-executed  act  of  retali- 
ation, Lodore  folded  his  arms,  and,  as  his  antagonist  rose,  foaming  with  rage, 
said,  "  You,  at  least,  shall  have  no  cause  to  complain  of  not  receiving  satis- 
faction for  your  injuries  at  my  hands.  1  am  ready  to  give  it,  even  in  this 
room.     I  am  Lord  Lodore  !" 

Duels,  that  sad  relic  of  feudal  barbarism,  were  more  frequent  then  than 
now  in  America ;  at  all  times  they  are  more  fatal  and  more  openly  carried 
on  there  than  in  this  country.  The  nature  of  the  quarrel  in  the  present  in- 
stance admitted  of  no  dtday  ;  and  it  wa  resolved,  that  the  antagonists 
should  immediately  repair  to  an  open  place  near  the  city,  to  terminate,  by 
the  death  of  one,  the  insults  they  had  mutually  inflicted. 

Lodore  saw  himself  surrounded  by  Americans,  all  strangers  to  him  ;  nor 
was  he  acquainted  with  one  person  in  New- York  whom  he  covJd  ask  to  be 


LODORE.  67 

his  second.  This  was  matter  of  slight  import ;  the  idea  of  vindicating  hi9 
reputation,  and  of  avenging  the  bitter  mortifications  received  from  society, 
filled  him  with  unnatural  gladness  ;  and  he  was  hastening  to  the  meeting, 
totally  regardless  of  any  arrangement  for  his  security. 

There  was  a  gentleman,  seated  at  a  distant  part  of  the  coffee-room,  who 
had  been  occupied  by  reading  ;  nor  seemed  at  all  to  give  ear  to  what  was 
going;  on,  till  the  name  of  Lodore  occurred  :  he  then  rose,  and  when  tho 
blow  was  given,  drew  nearer  the  group  ;  though  he  still  stood  aloof,  while, 
With  raised  and  aoiry  voices,  they  assailed  Lodore,  and  he,  replying  in  his 
deep,  subdued  voice,  agreed  to  the  meeting  which  they  tumultuously  de- 
manded. Now,  as  they  were  hastening  away,  and  Lodore  was  following 
them,  confessedly  unbefriended,  this  gentleman  approached,  and  putting 
his  card  into  the  nobleman's  hand  said,  "  I  am  an  Englishman,  and  should 
be  verv  sdad  if  you  would  accept  my  services  on  this  painful  occasion." 

Lodore  looked  at  the  card,  on  which  was  simply  engraved  the  name  of 
"  Mr.  Edward  Villiers,''  and  then  at  him  who  addressed  him.  He  was  a 
youn  »  man  —  certainly  not  more  than  three-and-t.wenty.  An  air  of  London 
fashion,  to  which  Lodore  had  been  so  lon^  unused,  was  combined  with  a 
most  prepossessing  countenance.  He  was  light-haired  and  blue-eyed  ; 
ingenuousness  and  since  if.y  marked  his  physiognomy.  The  few  words  he 
had  sooken  were  enfoced  by  a  graceful  cordiality  of  manner,  and  a  silver- 
toned  voice,  that  won  the  heart.  Lodore  was  struck  by  his  prepossessing 
exterior,  and  replied  with  warm  thanks ;  adding,  that  his  services  would 
be  most  acceptable  on  certain  conditions,  —  which  were  merely  that  he 
should  put  no  obstacle  to  the  immediate  termination  of  the  quarrel,  in  any 
mode,  however  desperate,  which  his  adversary  might  propose.  "  Other- 
wise," Lodore  added,  "  I  must  entirely  decline  your  interference.  All  this 
is  to  me  matter  of  far  higher  import  than  mere  life  and  death,  and  I  can 
submit  to  no  control." 

"Then  my  services  must  be  limited  to  securing  fair  play  for  you,"  said 
Mr.  Villiers. 

Daring  this  brief  parley,  they  were  in  the  street,  proceeding  towards  the 
place  of  meeting.  Day  had  declined,  and  the  crescent  moon  was  high  in 
the  heavens :  each  instant  its  beams  grew  more  refulgent,  as  twilight 
yielded  to  night. 

"  We  shall  have  no  difficulty  in  seeing  each  other,"  said  Lodore,  in  a 
cheerful  voice.  He  felt  cheerful :  a  burden  wras  lifted  from  his  heart. 
How  much  must  a  brave  man  suffer  under  the  accusation  of  cowardice, 
an-1  how  joyous  when  an  opportunity  is  granted  of  proving  his  courage  ! 
Lodore  was  brave  to  rashness  :  at  this  crisis  he  felt  as  if  about  to  be  born 
a^ain  to  all  the  earthly  blessings  of  which  he  had  been  deprived  so  long. 
He  did  not  think  of  the  dread  baptism  of  blood  which  was  to  occasion  his 
regeneration  —  still  less  of  personal  danger  ;  he  thought  only  of  good  name 
restored  —  of  his  reputation  for  courage  vindicated  —  of  the  insolence  of  this 
ill-spoken  fellow  signally  chastised. 

"  Rave  you  weapons  ?"  asked  his  companion. 

"  Thev  will  procure  pistols,  I  suppose,"  replied  Lodore:  "w'e  should 
lose  much  time  by  going  to  the  hotel  for  mine." 

"We  are  passing  that  where  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Villiers.  "If  you  .will 
wait  one  moment.  I  will  fetch  mine  ;  — or  will  you  go  up  with  me  ?" 

Th°y  entered  the  house,  and  the  apartments  of  Mr.  Villiers.  At  such 
moments  slight  causes  ooerate  changes  on  the  human  heart ;  and  as  various 
impulses  sweep  like  winds  over  its  chords,  that  subtle  instrument  gives 
forth  various  tones.  A  moment  ago,  Lodore  seemed  to  raise  his  proud  head 
to  the  stirs:  he  felt  as  if  escaping  from  a  dim,  intricate  cavern,  into  the 
blessed  light  of  day.  The  strong  excitement  permitted  no  second  thought 
—  no  second  image.     With  a  lighter  step  than  Mr.  Villiers,  he  followed 


68  LODORE. 

that  gentleman  up  stairs.  For  a  moment,  as  he  went  into  an  inner  apart- 
ment for  the  pistols,  Lodore  was  alone :  a  desk  was  open  on  the  table  ; 
and  paper,  unwritten  on,  upon  the  desk.  Scarcely  knowing  what  he  did, 
Lodore  took  the  pen,  and  wrote  —  "  Ethel,  my  child  !  my  life's  dearest 
blessing!  be  virtuous,  be  useful,  be  happy  ! — farewell,  for  ever !"  —  and 
under  this  he  wrote  Mrs.  Greville's  address.  The  first  words  were  w  ritten 
with  a  firm  hand  ;  but  the  recollection  of  all  that  might  occur,  made  his 
fingers  tremble  as  he  continued  and  the  direction  was  nearly  illegible.  "  It 
any  thing  happens  to  me,'1  said  he  to  Mr.  Villiers,  "  you  will  add  to  your 
kindness  immeasurably  by  going  'Sere,"  —  pointing  to  the  address,  —  "  and 
taking  precaution  that  my  daughter  may  hear  of  her  disaster  in  as  tender 
a  manner  as  possible."  * 

"Is  there  any  thing  else?"'  asked  his  companion.  "Command  me 
freely,  I  beseech  you ;  I  will  obey  your  injunctions  to  the  letter." 

"  It  is  too  late  now,"  replied  the  noble ;  "  and  we  must  not  keep 
these  gentlemen  waiting.  The  little  I  have  to  say  we  will  talk  of  as  we 
walk." 

"  I  feel,"  continued  Lodore,  after  they  were  again  in  the  street,  "  that  if 
this  meeting  end  fatally,  I  have  no  power  to  enforce  my  wishes  and  designs 
beyond  the  grave.  The  providence  which  has  so  strangely  conducted  the 
drama  of  my  life,  will  proceed  in  its  own  way  after  the  final  catastrophe. 
I  commit  my  daughter  to  a  higher  power  than  mine,  secure  that  so  much 
innocence  and  goodness  must  receiye  blessings,  even  in  this  ill-grained 
state  of  existence.  You  will  see  Mrs.  Greville  ;  she  is  a  kind-hearted, 
humane  woman,  and  will  exert,  herself  to  console  my  child.  Ethel  —  Miss 
Fitzhenry,  I  mean  —  must,  as  soon  as  is  practicable,  return  to  England. 
She  will  be  received  there  by  my  sister,  and  remain  with  her  till —  till  her 
fate  be  otherwise  decided.  We  were  on  the  point  of  sailing  ;  —  I  have 
fitted  up  a  cabin  for  her ;  —  she  might  make  the  voyage  in  that  very  vessel. 
You,  perhaps,  will  consult — though  what  claim  have  I  on  you  ?" 

"  A  claim  most  paramount,"  interrupted  Villiers  eagerly,  —  "  that  of  a 
countryman  in  a  foreign  land  — of  a  gentleman  vindicating  his  honour  at 
the  probable  expense  of  life." 

"  Thank  you  !"  replied  Lodore  ;  —  "  my  heart  thanks  you  —  for  my  own 
sake,  and  for  my  daughter's  —  if  indeed  you  will  kindly  render  her  such 
services  as  her  sudden  loss  may  make  sadly  necessary." 

"  Depend  upon  me  ;  — though  God  grant  she  need  them  not!" 

"For  her  sake,  I  say  Amen!"  said  Lodore;  "for  my  own  —  life  is 
a  worn-out  garment  —  few  tears  will  be  shed  upon  my  grave,  except  by 
Ethel." 

"  There  is  yet  another,"  said  Villiers  with  visible  hesitation  :  "  paidon 
me,  if  I  appear  impertinent;  but  at  such  a  moment,  may  I  not  name  Lady 
Lodore  ?" 

"For  her,  indeed,"  answered  the  peer,  "the  event  of  this  evening, 
if  fatal  to  me,  will  prove  fortunate :  she  will  be  delivered  from  a  heavy 
chain.  May  she  be  happy  in  another  choice  !  Are  you  acquainted  with 
her  ?" 

"  I  am,  slightly  —  that  is,  not  very  intimately." 

"  If  you  meet  her  on  your  return  to  England,"  continued  the  noble  ;  — 
"if  you  ever  see  Lady  Lodore,  tell  her  that  I  invoked  a  blessing  on  her  with 
my  latest  breath  —  that  I  forgive  her,  and  ask  her  forgiveness.  But  we  are 
arrived.    Remember  Ethel." 

"  Yet  one  moment,"  cried  Villiers  ;  —  "  one  moment  of  reflection,  of  calm  J 
Is  there  no  way  of  preventing  this  encounter?" 

"  None!  —  fail  me  not,  I  entreat  you,  in  this  one  thing  ;  — interpose  no 
obstacle  —  be  as  eager  and  as  firm  as  I  myself  am.   Our  friends  have  chosen 


LODORE.  69 

a  rising  ground  :  we  shall  be  excellent  marks  for  one  another.  Pray  do  not 
lose  time." 

The  American  and  his  second  stood  in  dark  relief  against  the  moon-lit 
sky.  As  the  rays  fell  upon  the  English  noble,  Hatfield  observed  to  his 
companion,  that  he  now  perfectly  recognised  him,  and  wondered  at  his 
previous  blindness.  Perhaps  he  felt  some  compunction  for  the  insult  he 
had  offered  ;  but  he  said  nothing,  and  no  attempt  was  made  on  either  side 
at  amicable  explanation.  They  proceeded  at  once,  with  a  kind  of  savage 
indifference,  to  execute  the  murderous  designs  which  caused  them  to  dis- 
turb the  still  and  lovely  night. 

It  was  indeed  a  night,  that  love,  and  hope,  and  all  the  softer  emotions  of 
the  soul,  would  have  felt  congenial  to  them.  A  balmy,  western  breeze 
lifted  the  hair  lightly  from  Lodore's  brow,  and  played  upon  his  cheek  ;  the 
trees  were  bathed  in  yellow  moonshine ;  a  glowworm  stealing  along  the 
grass  scarce  showed  its  light;  and  sweet  odours  were  wafted  from  grove 
and  field.  Lodore  stood,  with  folded  arms,  gazing  upon  the  scene  in  silence, 
while  the  seconds  were  arranging  preliminaries,  and  loading  the  fire-arms. 
None  can  tell  what  thoughts  then  passed  through  his  mind.  Did  he  re- 
joice in  his  honour  redeemed,  or  grieve  for  the  human  being  at  whose 
breast  he  was  about  to  aim  ?  —  or  were  his  last  thoughts  spent  upon  the 
account  he  might  so  speedily  be  called  on  to  render  before  his  Creator's 
throne  ?  When  at  last  he  took  his  weapon  from  the  hand  of  Villiers,  his 
countenance  was  serene,  though  solemn  ;  and  his  voice  firm  and  calm. 
"  Remember  me  to  Ethel,"  he  said;  "and  tell  her  to  thank  you — I 
cannot  sufficiently  ;  yet  1  do  so  from  my  heart.  If  I  live  —  then  more  of 
this." 

The  antagonists  were  placed  :  they  were  both  perfectly  self-possessed 

—  bent,  with  hardness  and  cruelty  of  purpose,  on  fulfilling  the  tragic  act. 
As  they  stood  face  to  face  —  a  few  brief  paces  only  intervening  —  on  the 
moon-lit  hill  —  neither  had  ever  been  more  alive,  more  full  of  conscious 
power,  of  moral  and  physical  energy,  than  at  that  moment.  Villiers  saw 
them  standing  beneath  the  silver  moonbeams,  each  in  the  pride  of  life,  of 
strength,  of  resolution.  A  ray  glanced  from  the  barrel  of  Lodore's  pistol, 
as  he  raised  and  held  it  out  with  a  steady  hand  —  a  flash  —  the  reports  — 
and  then  he  staggered  two  steps,  fell,  and  lay  on  the  earth,  making  no  sign 
of  life.  Villiers  rushed  to  him:  the  wound  was  unapparent  —  no  blood 
flowed,  but  the  bullet  had  entered  his  heart.  His  friend  raised  his  head  in 
his  arms  ;  his  eyes  opened  ;  his  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  issued  from  them  ; 

—  a  shadow  crossed  his  face  —  the  body  slipped  from  Villiers's  support  to 
the  ground  —  all  was  over  —  Lodore  was  dead  S 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

En  cor  gentil,  amor  per  mort  no  passa. 

Ausias  March,  Troubadour. 

We  return  to  Longfield  and  to  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry.  The  glory  of 
summer  invested  the  world  with  light,  cheerfulness,  and  beauty,  when  the 
sorrowing  sister  of  Lodore  visited  London,  to  receive  her  orphan  niece  from 
the  hands  of  the  friend  of  Mrs.  Greville,  under  whose  protection  she  had 
made  the  voyage.  The  good  lady  folded  poor  Ethel  in  her  arms,  overcome 
by  the  likeness  she  saw  to  her  beloved  brother  Henry,  in  his  youthful  days, 
before  passion  had  worn  and  misfortune  saddened  him.  Her  soft,  brown, 
lamp-like  eyes,  beamed  with  the  same  sensibility.  Yet  when  she  examined 
her  more  closely,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  lost  somewhat  of  the  likeness ;  for  the 


70  LODORE. 

lower  part  of  her  face  resembled  her  mother :  her  hair  Was  lighter  and  he? 
complexion  much  fairer  than  Lodore  ;  besides  that  the  expression  of  her 
countenance  was  peculiar  to  herself,  and  possessed  that  individuality  which 
is  so  sweet  to  behold,  but  impossible  to  describe. 

They  lingered  but  a  few  days  in  London.  Fanny  Derham,  who  accom- 
panied her  on  her  voyage,  had  already  returned  to  her  father,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  detain  them  from  Longfield.  Ethel  had  no  adieus  to  make  that 
touched  her  heart.  Her  aunt  was  more  to  her  than  any  other  living  being, 
and  her  strongest  desire  now  was,  to  visit  the  scenes  once  hallowed  by  her 
father's  presence.  The  future  was  a  chaos  of  dark  regret  and  loneliness ; 
her  whole  life,  she  thought,  would  be  composed  of  one  long  memory.  — 
one  memory,  and  one  fatal  image.  Ethel  had  not  only  consecrated  her 
heart  to  her  father,  but  his  society  was  a  habit  with  her,  and,  until  now, 
she  had  never  even  thought  how  she  could  effilure  existence  without  the 
supporting  influence  of  his  affection.  His  convei-sation,  so  full  of  a  kind 
penetration  into  her  thoughts,  was  calculated  to  develop  and  adorn  them  ; 
his  manly  sense  and  paternal  solicitude,  had  all  fostered  a  filial  love,  the 
most  tender  and  strong.  Add  to  this,  his  sudden  and  awful  death.  Al- 
ready had  they  schemed  their  future  life  in  a  world  new  to  Ethel :  he  had 
excited  her  enthusiasm  by  descriptions  of  the  wonders  of  art  in  the  old 
countries,  and  raised  her  curiosity  while  promising  to  satisfy  it ;  and  she 
had  eagerly  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  she  should  see  the  magical 
works  of  man,  and  mingle  with  a  system  of  society,  of  which,  except 
by  books,  he  alone  presented  any  ensample  to  her.  Their  voyage  was 
fixed,  and  on  the  other  side  of  their  watery  way  she  had  figured  a  very 
elysiurn  of  wonders  and  pleasures.  The  late  change  in  their  mode  of 
life  had  served  to  endear  him  doubly  to  her.  It  had  been  the  occupation  of 
her  life  to  think  of  her  father,  to  communicate  all  her  thoughts  to  him  and 
in  the  unreflecting  confidence  of  youth,  she  had  looked  forward  to  no  ter- 
mination of  a  state  of  existence  that  had  begun  from  her  cradle.  He  prop- 
ped her  entire  world ;  the  foundations  must  moulder  and  crumble  away 
without  him  —  and  he  was  gone  —  where  then  was  she  ? 

Mr.  Villiers  had,  as  soon  as  he  was  able,  hurried  to  Mrs.  Greville's 
house.  By  some  strange  chance,  the  fatal  tidings  had  preceded  him,  and 
he  found  the  daughter  of  the  unfortunate  Lodore  bewildered  and  maddened 
by  her  frightful  calamity.  Her  first  desire  was  to  see  all  that  was  left  of  her 
parent  —  she  could  not  believe  that  he  was  indeed  dead  —  she  was  certain 
that  care  and  skill  might  revive  him  —  she  insisted  on  being  led  to  his  side  ; 
her  friends  strove  to  restrain  her,  but  she  rushed  into  the  street,  she  knew 
not  whither,  to  ask  for,  to  find,  her  father.  The  timidity  of  her  temper 
was  overborne  by  the  wild  expectation  of  yet  being  to  able  recall  him  from 
among  the  dead.  Villiers  followed  her,  and,  yielding  to  her  wishes,  guided 
her  towards  the  hotel  whither  the  remains  of  Lodore  had  been  carried. 
He  judged  that  the  exertion  of  walking  thither,  and  the  time  that  must 
elapse  before  she  arrived,  would  calm  and  subdue  her.  He  talked  to  her 
of  her  father  as  they  went  along  —  he  endeavoured  to  awaken  the  source 
of  tears  —  but  she  was  silent  —  absorbed  —  brooding  darkly  on  her  hopes. 
Pity  for  herself  had  not  yet  arisen,  nor  the  frightful  certainty  of  bereave- 
ment. To  see  those  dear  lineaments  —  to  touch  his  hand  —  the  very  hand 
that  had  so  often  caressed  her,  clay-cold  and  incapable  of  motion !  Could 
it  be! 

She  did  not  answer  Villiers,  she  only  hurried  forward  ;  she  feared  ob- 
struction to  her  wishes  ;  her  soul  was  set  on  one  thought  only.  Had  Vil- 
liers endeavoured  to  deceive  her,  it  would  have  been  in  vain.  Arrived  at 
the  hotel,  as  by  instinct,  she  sprung  up  the  stairs,  and  reached  the  door  of 
the  room.  It  was'  darkened,  in  useless  but  decent  respect  for  the  death 
within ;  there  lay  a  figure  covered  by  a  sheet,  and  already  chilling  the 


LODORE.  fi 

atmosphere  around  it.  The  imagination  is  slow  to  act  upon  the  feelings  in 
comparison  with  the  quick  operation  of  the  senses.  Ethel  now  knew  ih&t 
her  father  was  dead.  Mortal  strength  could  support  no  more  —  the  energy 
of  hope  deserting  her,  she  sunk  lifeless  on  the  ground. 

For  a  long  time  she  was  passive  in  the  hands  of  others.  A  violent  ill- 
ness confined  her  to  her  bed,  and  physical  suffering  subdued  the  excess  of 
mental  agony.  Villiers  left  her  among  kind  friends.  It  was  resolved  that 
she  and  Fanny  Derham  should  proceed  to  England,  under  the  protection  of 
the  friends  of  Mrs.  Greville  about  to  return  thither ;  he  was  himself  obliged 
to  return  toEngland  without  delay. 

Ethel's  destiny  was  as  yet  quite  uncertain.  It  was  decided  by  the 
opening  of  her  father's  will.  This  had  been  made  twelve  years  before,  on  hig 
first  a  rival  at  New- York,  and  breathed  the  spirit  of  resentment,  and  even 
revenue,  against  his  wife.  LoJore  had  indeed  not  much  wealth  to  Lave. 
His  income  chiefly  consisted  in  a  grant  from  the  crown,  entailed  on  heirs 
male,  which  in  default  of  these,  reverted  back,  and  in  a  sinecure  which  ex- 
pired with  him.  His  paternal  estate  at  Longfield,  and  a  sum  under  twenty 
thousand  pounds,  the  savings  of  twelve  years,  formed  all  his  possessions. 
The  income  arising  from  the  former  was  absorbed  by  Lady  Lodore's  joint- 
ure of  a  thousand  a  year,  and  five  hundred  a  year  settled  on  his  sister, 
together  with  permission  to  occupy  the  family  mansion  during  her  life  The 
remaining  sum  was  disposed  of  in  a  way  most  singular.  Without  referring 
to  the  amount  of  what  he  could  leave,  he  bequeathed  the  additional  sum  of 
s!x  hundred  a  ypar  to  Lady  Lodore,  on  the  express  condition,  that  she 
should  not  interfere  with,  nor  even  see,  her  child  ;  upon  her  failing  in  this 
condition,  this  sum  was  to  be  left  to  accumulate  till  Ethel  was  or  age.  Ethel 
was  ultimately  to  inherit  every  thing ;  but  while  her  mother  and  aunt  lived, 
her  fortune  consisted  of  little  more  than  five  thousand  pounds  ;  and  even 
in  this,  she  was  limited  to  the  use  of  the  interest  only  until  she  was  of  age  • 
a  previous  ma-ria^e  would  have  no  influence  on  the  disposition  of  her  pro- 
pertv.     Mrs.  Elizabeth  was  left  her  guardian. 

This  will  was  in  absolute  contradiction  to  the  wishes  and  feelings  in 
which  Lord  Lodore  died  ;  so  true  had  his  prognostic  been,  that  he  had  no 
power  beyond  the  grave.  He  had  probably  forgotten  the  existence  of  this 
will,  or  imagined  that  it  had  been  destroyed  :  he  had  determined  to  make 
a  new  one  on  his  arrival  in  England.  Meanwhile  it  was  safrly  deposited 
w'th  his  solicitor  in  London,  and  Mrs.  Elizabeth,  with  mistaken  z^al, 
hastened  to  put  it  into  force,  and  showed  herself  eager  to  obey  her  b-  other's 
wisnes  with  scrupulous  exactitude.  The  contents  of  it  were  communicated 
to  Lid  v  Lodore.  "  She  made  no  comm°nt  —  returned  no  answer.  She  wag 
suddenly  reduced  forn  comoa-ative  affluence  (for  her  husband's  allowance 
had  consisted  of  several  thousands)  to  a  bare  sixteen  hundred  a  year. 
Whether  she  would  be  willing  to  diminish  this  her  scanty  income  one-thirdt 
and  take  on  herself,  besides,  the  care  of  her  daughter,  was  not  known.  She 
remained  inactive  and  silent,  and  Ethel  was  placed  at  once  under  the 
guadianship  of  her  aunt. 

Th?se  two  ladies  left  London  in  the  old  lumbering  chariot  which  had 
belonged  to  the  ad  ni-al.  Now,  indeed,  Ethel  found  herself  in  a  new  coun- 
try, with  new  friends  around  her,  speaking  a  new  language,  and  each 
change  of  scene  made  more  manifest  the  complete  revolution  of  her  for- 
tune. She  looked  on  all  with  languid  eyes,  and  a  heart  dead  to  every 
pleasure.  Her  aunt,  who  bore  a  slight  resemblance  to  her  father,  won  some 
decree  of  interest;  and  the  sole  consolation  offered  her,  was  to  trace  a 
similarity  of  voice  and  feature,  and  thus  to  bring  the  lost  Lodore  more 
vivHlv  before  her.  The  journey  to  Lono-field  was  therefore  not  wholly 
without  a  melancholy  charm.  Mrs.  Elizabeth  longed  to  obtain  more  mi- 
nute information  concerning  her  brother,  her  pride  and  her  delight,  than 


^2  LODORE. 

had  been  contained  in  his  short  and  infrequent  letters.  She  hazarded  a 
Few  questions.  Grief  loves  to  feed  upon  itself,  and  to  surround  itself  with 
multiplications  of  its  own  image ;  like  a  bee,  it  will  find  sweets  in  the 
poison  flower,  and  nestle  within  its  own  creations,  although  they  pierce  the 
heart  that  cherishes  them.  Ethel  felt  a  fascination  in  dwelling  for  ever  on 
the  past.  She  asked  for  nothing  better  than  to  live  her  life  over  again, 
while  narrating  its  simple  details,  and  to  bring  her  father  back  from  his 
grave  to  dwell  with  her,  by  discoursing  perpetually  concerning  him.  She 
was  unwearied  in  her  descriptions,  her  anecdotes,  her  praises.  The  Illinois 
rose  before  the  eyes  of  her  aunt,  like  a  taintless  paradise,  inhabited  by  an 
an ^el.  Love  and  good  dwelt  together  there  in  blameless  union  ;  the  sky 
was  brighter,  the  earth  fairer,  fresher,  younger,  more  magnificent  and  more 
wonderful,  than  in  the  old  world.  The  good  lady  called  to  mind,  with  sur- 
prise, the  melancholy  and  despairing  letters  she  had  received  from  her  bro- 
ther, while  inhabiting  this  Eden.  It  was  matter  of  mortification  to  his 
mou-ming  daughter  to  hear,  as  from  himself,  as  it  were,  that  any  sorrows 
had  visited  his  heart  while  with  her.  v\  hen  we  love  one  to  whom  we  have 
devoted  our  lives  with  undivided  affection,  the  idea  that  the  beloved  object 
suffered  any  grief  while  with  us,  jars  with  our  sacred  sorrow.  "W  e  delight 
to  make  the  difference  between  the  possession  of  their  society,  and  our  sub- 
sequent bereavement  entire  in  its  contrasted  happiness  and  misery ;  we 
wish  to  have  engrossed  their  whole  souls,  as  they  do  ours,  at  the  period  of 
regret,  and  it  is  like  the  most  cruel  theft,  to  know  that  we  have  been  de- 
prived of  any  of  the  power  we  believed  that  we  possessed,  to  influence  their 
entire  being.  But.  then  again,  forgetting  her  aunt's  interruptions,  Ethei 
returned  to  the  story  of  their  occupations,  their  amusements,  their  fond  and 
unsullied  intercourse  :  her  eyes  streamed  with  tears  as  she  spoke,  while  yet 
her  heart  felt  relief  in  the  indulgence  of  her  wo. 

When  the  ladies  returned  to  Longfield,  it  became  Mrs.  Elizabeth's  turn 
to  narrate.  She  had  lived  many  years  feeding  silently  on  the  memory  of 
by-gone  time.  During  her  brother's  exile,  she  had  seldom  spoken  his 
name,  for  she  felt  little  inclined  to  satisfy  the  mquisitiveness  of  the  good 
people  of  Lonsrfield.  But  now  her  long-stored  anecdotes,  her  sacred  relics, 
the  spots  made  dear  by  his  presence,  all  were  a  treasure  poured  out  boun- 
teously before  Ethel.  Nothing  appeared  so  natural  to  the  unfortunate  girl 
as  that  another  should,  like  herself,  worship  the  recollection  of  her  adored 
father.  To  love  him  while  he  lived,  to  see  nothing  in  the  world  that  had 
lost  him,  except  his  shadow  cast  upon  its  benighted  state,  appeared  the  only 
existence  that  could  follow  his  extinction.  Some  people,  when  they  die, 
leave  but  a  foot  of  ground  vacant,  which  the  eager  pressing  ranks  of  theii 
fellow-creatures  fill  up  immediately,  walking  on  their  grave,  as  on  common 
earth  ;  others  leave  a  gap,  a  chasm,  a  fathomless  gulf,  beside  which  the 
survivor  sits  for  ever  hopeless.  Both  Ethel  and  her  aunt,  in  their  several 
ways,  in  youth  and  age,  were  similarly  situated.  Both  were  cut  off*  from 
the  crreat "family  of  their  species ;  wedded  to  one  single  being,  and  he  was 
gone.  Both  made  the  dead  Lodore  the  focus  to  concentrale,  and  the  mirror 
to  reflect,  all  their  sensations  and  experience.  He  visited  their  dreams  by 
night ;   his  name  was  their  study,  their  pastime,  their  sole  untiring  society. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth,  the  gentlest  visionary  that  had  ever  outlived  hope,  with- 
out arriving  at  its  fruition,  having  reached  those  years  when  memory  is  the 
natural  food  of  the  human  mind,  found  this  fare  exceedingly  well  adapted 
to  her  constitution.  She  had  pined  a  little  while,  cut  off* from  all  heartfelt 
communication  with  her  fellow-creatures,  but  the  presence  of  Ethel  fulfilled 
her  soul's  desire  ;  she  found  sympathy,  and  an  auditress,  into  whose  ever 
attentive  ear  she  could  pour  those  reveries  which  she  had  so  long  nourished 
in  secret.  Whoso  had  heard  the  good  lady  talk  of  endless  tears  and 
mourning  for  the  loss  of  Lodore,  of  Ufe  not  worth  having  when  he  was 


t-ODORE*  73 

gone,  of  the  sad  desolation  of  their  position,  and  looked  at  her  face,  beam- 
ing with  satisfaction,  with  only  so  much  sensibility  painted  there  as  to 
render  it  expressive  of  all  that  is  kind  and  compassionate,  good  humour  in 
her  frequent  smile,  and  sleek  content  in  her  plump  person,  might  have 
laughed  at  th?  contrast;  and  yet  have  pondered  on  the  strange  riddle  we 
human  beings  present,  and  how  contradictions  accord  in  q^r  singular  ma- 
chinery. This  good  aunt  was  incapable  of  affectation,  and  all  was  true 
and  real  that  she  said.  She  lived  upon  the  idea  of  her  brother  ;  he  was  all 
in  all  to  her,  but  they  had  been  divided  so  long,  that  his  death  scarcely  in- 
creased the  separation  ;  and  she  could  talk  of  meeting  him  in  heaven,  with 
as  firm  and  cheerful  a  faith,  as  a  few  months  before  she  had  anticipated  his 
return  to  England.  Though  sincere  in  her  regret  for  his  death,  habit  had 
turned  lamentation  into  a  healthy  nutriment,  so  that  she  throve  upon  the 
tears  she  shed,  and  grew  fat  and  cheerful  upon  her  sighs.  She  would  lead 
the  agonized  girl  to  the  vault  which  contained  the  remains  of  her  brother, 
and  hover  near  it,  as  a  Catholic  beside  the  shrine  of  a  favourite  saint  —  the 
visible  image  giving  substance  and  form  to  her  reverie  ;  for  hitherto,  her 
dreamy  life  had  wanted  the  touch  of  reality,  which  the  presence  of  her 
niece  and  the  sad  memorial  of  her  lost  brother  afforded. 

The  horns-felt  sensations  of  the  mourning  orphan  were  in  entire  contrast 
to  this  holyday  wo.  While  her  aunt  brooded  over  her  sorrow,  "  to  keep  it 
warm,"  it  wrapped  Ethel's  soul  as  with  a  fiery  torture.  Every  cheerful 
thought  lay  buried  with  her  father,  and  the  tears  she  shed  near  his  grave 
Were  accompanied  by  a  wrenching  of  her  being,  and  a  consequent  exhaus- 
tion, that  destroyed  the  elasticity  of  the  spirit  of  youth.  The  memory  of 
Lodore,  which  soothed  his  sister,  haunted  his  child  like  a  sad  beckoning, 
yet  fatal  vision  ;  she  yearned  to  reach  the  shore  where  his  pale  ghost  per- 
petually wandered  —  the  earth  seemed  a  dark  prison,  and  liberty  and  light 
dwelt  with  the  dead  beyond  the  grave.  Eternally  conversant  with  the 
image  of  death,  she  was  brought  into  too  near  communion  with  the  grim 
enemy  of  life.  She  wasted  and  grew  pale  :  nor  did  any  voice  speak  to 
her  of  the  unreasonableness  of  her  grief;  her  father  was  not  near  to  teach 
her  fortitude,  and  there  appeared  a  virtue  and  a  filial  piety  in  the  excess  ot 
her  regret,  which  blinded  her  aunt  to  the  fatal  consequences  of  its  indul- 
gence. 

While  summer  lasted,  and  the  late  autumn  protracted  its  serenity  almost 
into  winter,  Ethel  wandered  in  the  lanes  and  fields  ; '  and  in  spite  of  wast- 
ing a;rief,  the  free  air  of  heaven,  which  swept  her  cheek,  preserved  its 
healthy  hue  and  braced  her  limbs.  But  when  dreary  inclement  winter 
arrived,  and  the  dull  fireside  of  Aunt  Bessy  became  the  order  of  the  day, 
without  occupation  to  amuse,  or  society  to  distract  her  thoughts,  given  up 
to  grief,  and  growing  into  a  monument  of  wo,  it  became  evident  that  the 
springs  of  life  were  becoming  poisoned,  and  that  health  and  existence 
itself  were  giving  way  before  the  destructive  influences  at  work  within. 
Appetite  first,  then  sleep,  deserted  her.  A  slight  cold  became  a  cough, 
and  then  changed  into  a  preying  fever.  She  grew  so  thin,  that  her  large 
eyes,  shining  with  unnatural  lustre,  appeared  to  occupy  too  much  of  her 
face,  and  her  brow  was  streaked  with  ghastly  hues.  Poor  Mrs.  Elizabeth, 
when  she  found  that  neither  arrowroot  nor  chicken-broth  restored   her, 

f*ew  frightened  —  the  village  practitioner  exhausted  his  skill  without  avail, 
thel  herself  firmly  believed  that  she  was  going  to  die,  and  fondly  cherished 
the  hope  of  rejoining  her  father.  She  was  in  love  with  death,  which 
alone  could  reunite  her  to  the  being,  apart  from  whom  she  believed  it  im- 
possible to  exist 

But  limits  were  now  placed  to  Mrs.  Elizabeth's  romance.     The  danger 
of  Ethel  was  a  frightful  reality  that  awoke  every  natural  feeling.     Ethel, 
the  representative  o/  her  brother,  the  last  of  their  nearly  extinct  race,  the 
32—7 


74  LOrJORE. 

sole  relation  she  possessed,  the  only  creature  whom  she cotrM  entirety Tore> 
was  dear  to  her  beyond  expression  ;  and  the  dread  of  losing  her  gave  ac- 
tivity to  her  slothful  resolves.  Having  seldom,  during  the  whole  course  of 
her  life,  been  called  upon  to  put  any  plan  or  wish  of  hers  into  actual  execu- 
tion, what  another  would  have  immediately  and  easily  done,  was  an  event 
to  call  forth  all  her  energies,  and  to  require  all  her  courage;  luckily  she. 
possessed  sufficient  to  meet  the  present  exigency.  She  wrote  up  to  Lori- 
dony  to  her  single  correspondent  there,  her  brother's  solicitor.  A  house  waa 
taken,  and  the  first  warm  days  of  spring  found  the  ladies  established  in  the 
metropolis.  A  physician  had  been  called  in,  and  he  pronounced  the  mind 
only  to  Be  sick,  "  Amuse  her,"  he  said  ;  "  occupy  her  from  dwelling  on 
those  thoughts  which  have  preyed  upon  her  health  ;  let  her  see  new  faces, 
new  places,  every  thing  new  — and  youth,  and  a  good  constitution,  will  do 
the  rest,'* 

There  seemed  so  much  truth  in  this  advice,  that  all  dangerous  symptoms 
disappeared  from  the  moment  of  Ethers  leaving  Essex.  Her  strength 
returned  — her  face  resumed  its  former  loveliness  ;  and  Aunt  Bessy,  over- 
joyed  at  the  change,  occupied  herself  earnestly  in  discovering  amusements 
for  her  niece  in  the  numerous,  wide-spread,  and  very  busy  congregation  of 
human  beings,  which  forms  the  western  portion  of  London, 


CHAPTER  XVIH. 

You  are  now 
In  London,  tbat  great  sea,  whose  ebb  and  flow, 
At  once  is  deaf  and  loud, 

Shelley* 

There  is  no  uninhabited  desert  so  dreary  as  the  peopled  streets  of  Lon<» 
don,  to  those  who  have  no  ties  with  its  inhabitants,  nor  any  pursuits  in 
common  with  its  busy  crowds.  A  drop  of  water  in  the  ocean  is  no  symbo} 
of  the  situation  of  an  isolated  individual  thrown  upon  the  stream  of  metro- 
politan life :  that  amalgamates  with  its  kindred  element ;  but  the  solitary 
being  finds  no  pole  of  attraction  to  cause  a  union  with  its  fellows,  and  bas- 
tilled  by  the  laws  of  society,  it  is  condemned  to  incommunicative  solitude. 

Ethel  was  thrown  completely  upon  her  aunt,  and  her  aunt  was  a  cipher 
m  the  world.  She  had  not  a  single  acquaintance  in  London  and  was 
wholly  inexperienced  *in  its  ways.  She  dragged  Ethel  about  to  see  sights,, 
and  Ethel  was  amused  for  a  time.  The  playhouses  were  a  great  source  of 
entertainment  to  her,  and  all  kinds  of  exhibitions,  panoramas,  and  shows, 
served  to  fill  up  her  day.  Still  the  great  want  of  all  shed  an  air  of  dulness 
over  every  thing  —  the  absence  of  human  intercourse,  and  of  the  conversa- 
tion and  sympathy  of  her  species.  Ethel,  as  she  drove  through  the  mazy 
streets,  and  mingled  with  the  equipages  in  the  park,  could  not  help  think- 
ing what  pleasant  people  might  be  found,  among  the  many  she  saw,  and 
how  strange  it  was  that  her  aunt  did  not  speak  even  to  one  among  them. 
This  solitude,  joined  to  a  sense  of  exclusion,  became  very  painful.  Again 
and  again  she  sighed  for  the  Illinois  j  that  was  inhabited  by  human  beings, 
humble  and  uncultivated  as  they  might  be.  She  knew  their  wants,  and 
could  interest  herself  in  their  goings  on.  All  the  moving  crowd  of  men  and 
women  now  around  her  seemed  so  many  automata  :  she  started  when  she 
heard  them  address  each  other,  and  express  any  feeling  or  intention  that 
distinguished  them  from  the  shadows  of  a  phantasmagoria. 

Where  were  the  boasted  delights  of  European  intercourse  which  Lodore 
had  vaunted  ?  — the  elegancies,  and  the  wit,  or  the  improvement  to  be  de- 


LODORE.  75 

rived  from  its  society  ?  — the  men  and  women  of  talent,  of  refinement,  and 
taste,  who  by  their  conversation  awaken  the  soul  to  new  powers,  and 
exhilarate  the  spirits  with  a  purer  madness  than  wine  —  who  with  alternate 
gayety  and  wisdom,  humour  and  sagacity,  amuse  while  they  teach  ;  ac- 
companying their  lessons  with  that  spirit  of  sympathy,  that  speaking  to  the 
eye  and  ear,  as  well  as  to  the  mind,  which  books  can  so  poorly  imitate? 
"  Here,  doubtless,  I  should  find  all  these,"  thought  Ethel,  as  she  surveyed 
the  audience  at  the  theatres,  or  the  daily  congregations  she  met  in  her 
drives  ;  "yet  I  live  here  as  if  not  only  I  inhabited  a  land  whose  language 
was  unknown  to  me,  for  then  I  might  converse  by  signs,  —  but  as  if  I  had 
fallen  among  beings  of  another  species,  with  whom  I  have  no  affinity :  I 
should  almost  say  that  I  walked  among  them  invisible,  did  they  not  con- 
descend sometimes  to  gaze  at  me,  proving  that  at  least  I  am  seen." 

Time  sped  on  very  quickly,  meanwhile,  in  spite  of  these  repinings  ;  for 
her  days  were  passed  in  the  utmost  monotony,  —  so  that  though  the  hours 
a  little  lagged,  yet  she  wondered  where  they  were  when  they  were  gone: 
and  they  had  spent  more  than  a  month  in  town,  though  it  seemed  but  a  few 
dfcys.  Ethel  had  entirely  recovered  her* health,  and  more  than  her  former 
beauty.  She  was  nearly  seventeen :  she  was  rather  tall  and  slim  ;  but 
there  was  a  bending  elegance  in  her  form,  joined  to  an  elastic  step,  which 
was  singularly  graceful.  No  man  could  see  her  without  a  wish  to  draw 
near  to  afford  protection  and  support;  and  the  soft  expression  of  her  full 
eyes  added  to  the  charm.  Her  deep  mourning  dress,  the  simplicity  of  her 
appearance,  her  face  so  prettily  shaded  by  her  bright  ringlets,  often  caused 
her  to  be  remarked,  and  people  asked  one  another  who  she  was.  None 
knew  ;  and  the  old-fashioned  appearance  of  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry,  and 
the  want  of  style  which  characterized  all  her  arrangements,  prevented  our 
very  aristocratic  gentry  from  paying  as  much  attention  to  her  as  they  other- 
wise would. 

One  day,  this  gentle,  solitary  pair  attended  a  morning  concert.  Ethel  had 
not  been  to  the  opera,  and  now  heard  Pasta  for  the  first  time.  Her  father 
had  cultivated  her  taste  for  Italian  music  ;  for  without  cultivation  —  without 
in  some  degree  understanding  and  being  familiar  with  an  art,  it  is  rare  that 
we  admire  even  the  most  perfect  specimens  of  it.  Ethel  listened  with  wrapt 
attention  ;  her  heart  beat  quick,  ano>  her  eyes  become  suffused  with  tears 
which  she  could  not  suppress  ;  —  so  she  leaned  forward,  shading  her  face 
as  much  as  she  could  with  her  veil,  and  trying  to  forget  the  throng  of  stran- 
gers about  her.  They  were  in  the  pit ;  and  having  come  in  late,  sat  at  the 
end  of  one  of  the  forms.  Pasta's  air  was  concluded  ;  and  she  still  turned 
a«ide,  being  too  much  agitated  to  wish  to  speak,  when  she  heard  her  aunt 
addressing  someone  as  an  old  acquaintance.  She  called  her  friend  "Cap- 
tain Markham,"  expressed  infinite  pleasure  at  seeing  him,  and  whispered 
her  niece  that  here  was  an  old  friend  of  her  father's.  Ethel  turned  and  be- 
held Mr.  Villiers.  His  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure,  and  he  expressed  his 
joy  at  the  chance  which  had  produced  the  meeting;  but  the  poor  girl  was 
unable  to  reply.  All  colour  deserted  her  cheeks  ;  marble  pale  and  cold,  her 
voice  failed,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  die  within  her.  The  room  Avhere  last 
she  saw  the  lifeless  remains  of  her  father  rose  before  her  ;  and  the  appear- 
ance of  Mr.  Villiers  was  as  a  vision  from  ar other  world,  speaking  of  the 
dead.  Mrs.  Elizabeth,  considerably  surprised,  asked  her  how  she  came  to 
know  Captain  Markham.  Ethel  would  have  said,  "  Let  us  go!"  but  her 
voice  died  away,  and  she  felt  that  tears  would  follow  any  attempt  at  expla 
nation.  Ashamed  of  the  very  possibility  of  occasioning  a  scene,  and  yet 
too  disturbed  to  know  well  what  she  was  about,  she  suddenly  rose,  and 
though  the  commencement  of  a  new  air  was  commanding  silence  and  at- 
tention, she  hastily  quitted  the  room,  and  found  herself  alone,  outside  the 
door,  before  her  aunt  was  well  aware  that  she  was  gone.     She  claimed 


76  LODORE. 

Captain  Markham's  assistance  to  follow  the  fugitive ;  and,  attended  by  him, 
at  len°th  discovered  her  chariot,  to  which  Ethel  had  beeji  led  by  the  servant, 
and  in  which  she  was  sitting  weeping  bitterly.  Mrs.  Elizabeth  felt  inclined 
to  ask.  her  whether  she  was  mad  ;  but  she  also  was  struck  dumb  ;  for  her 
Captain  Markham  had  said  — "I  am  very  sorry  to  have  distressed  Miss 
Fitzhenry.  My  name  is  Villiers.  I  cannot  wonder  at  her  agitation  ;  but 
it  would  give  me  much  pleasure  if  she  would  permit  me  to  call  on  her,  when 
she  can  see  me  with  more  composure." 

With  these  words,  he  assisted  the  good  lady  into  the  carriage,  bowed, 
and  disappeared.  He  was  not  Captain  Markham !  How  could  she  have 
been  so  stupid  as  to  imagine  that  he  was?  He  looked,  upon  the  whole, 
rather  younger  than  Captain  Markham  had  done,  when  she  formed  ac- 
quaintance with  him,  during  her  expedition  to  London  on  the  occasion  of 
Ethel's  christening.  He  was  taller,  too,  and  not  quite  so  stout ;  ye t  he 
was  so  like  —  the  same  frank,  open  countenance,  the  same  ingenuous 
manner,  and  the  same  clear  blue  eyes.  Certainly  Captain  IVarkham  was 
not  so  handsome  ;  —  and  what  a  fool  Mr.  Villiers  must  think  her,  for  hav- 
ing mistaken  him  for  a  person  who  resembled  him  sixteen  years  ago  ;  quite 
forgetting  t.tiat  Mr.  Villiers  was  ignorant  who  her  former  friend  was,  and 
when  she  had  seen  him.  All  these  perplexing  thoughts  passed  through 
Mrs.  Fitzhenry's  brain,  tinging  her  aged  cheek  with  a  blush  of  shame  ; 
while  Ethel,  having  recovered  herself,  was  shocked  to  remember  how  fool- 
ishly and  rudely  she  had  behaved  ;  and  longed  to  apologize,  yet  knew  not 
how ;  and  fancied  that  it  was  very  unlikely  that  she  should  ever  see  Mr. 
Villiers  again.  Her  aunt,  engaged  by  her  own.  distress,  quite  forgot  the 
intention  he  had  expressed  of  calling,  and  could  only  exclaim  and  lament 
over  her  folly.  The  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  with  great  discomfort  to 
both  ;  for  the  sight  of  Mr.  Villiers  renewed  all  Ethel's  sorrow  ;  and  again 
and  again  she  bestowed  the  tribute  of  showers  of  tears  to  her  dear  father's 
memory. 

The  following  day,  much  to  Ethel's  delight,  and  the  annoyance  of  Mrs. 
Elizabeth,  who  could  not  get  over  her  sense  of  shame,  Mr.  Villiers  pre- 
sented himself  in  their  drawing-room.  Villiers,  however,  was  a  man 
speedily  to  overcome  even  any  prejudice  formed  against  him  ;  far  more 
easily,  therefore,  could  he  obviate  the  good  aunt's  confusion,  and  put  her 
at  her  ease.  His  was  one  of  those  sunny  countenances  that  spoke  a  heart 
ready  to  give  itself  away  in  kindness  ;  —  a  cheering  voice,  whose  tones 
echoed  the  frankness  and  cordiality  of  his  nature.  Blest  with  a  buoyant, 
and  even  careless  spirit,  as  far  as  regarded  himself,  he  had  a  softness,  a 
delicacy,  and  a  gentleness,  with  respect  to  others,  which  animated  his 
manners  with  irresistible  fascination.  His  heart  was  open  to  pity  —  his 
soul  the  noblest  and  clearest  ever  fashioned  by  nature  in  her  happiest  mood. 
He  had  been  educated  in  the  world  — he  lived  for  the  world,  for  he  had  not 
genius  to  raise  himself  above  the  habits  and  pursuits  of  his  countrymen : 
yet  he  took  only  the  better  part  of  their  practices  ;  and  shed  a  grace  over 
them,  so  alien  to  their  essence,  that  any  one  might  have  been  deceived,  and 
have  fancied  that  he  proceeded  on  a  system  and  principles  of  his  own. 

He  had  travelled  a  good  deal,  and  was  somewhat  inclined,  when  pleased 
with  his  company,  to  narrate  his  adventures  and  experiences.  Ethel  was 
naturally  rather  taciturn  ;  and  Mrs.  Elizabeth  was  too  much  absorbed  in  the 

Eleasure  of  listening,  to  interrupt  their  visiter.  He  felt  himself  peculiarly 
appy  and  satisfied  between  the  two,  and  his  visit  was  excessively  long  ; 
nor  did  he  go  away  before  he  had  appointed  to  call  the  next  day,  and 
opened  a  long  vista  of  future  visit  for  himself,  assisted  by  the  catalogue  of 
all  that  the  ladies  had  not  seen,  and  all  that  they  desired  to  see,  in  London. 
Villiers  had  been  animated  while  with  them,  but  he  left  the  house  full  of 
thought.     The  name  of  Fitzhenry,  or  rather  that  of  Lodore,  was  familiar 


I.ODORE.  77 

to  him  :  and  the  strange  chance  that  had  caused  him  to  act  as  second  to 
the  lamented  noble  who  bore  this  title,  and  which  brought  him  in  contact 
with  his  orphan  and  s  litary  daughfer,  appeared  to  him  like  the  enchant- 
ment of  fairy  land,  trom  the  presence  of  Ethel,  he  proceeded  to  Lady 
Lodore's  house,  which  was  still  shut  up ;  yet  he  knocked,  and  inquired  of 
the  servant  whether  she  had  returned  to  England.  She  was  still  at  Baden, 
he  was  told,  and  not  expected  for  a  month  or  two  ;  and  this  answer  in- 
volved him  in  deeper  thought  than  before. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

Excellent  creature  !  whose  perfections  make 
Even  sorrow  lovely  ! 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Mr.  Villiers  now  became  a  constant  visiter  of  Mrs.  Elizabeth  and  her 
niece  ;  and  all  discontent,  all  sadness,  all  listlessness,  vanished  in  his  pres- 
ence. There  was  in  his  mind  a  constant  spring  of  vivacity,  which  did  not 
display  itself  in  mere  gayety,  but  in  being  perfectly  alive  at  every  moment, 
and  continually  ready  to  lend  himself  to  the  comfort  and  solace  of  his  com- 
panions. Sitting  in  their  dingy  London  house,  the  spirit  of  dulness  had 
drawn  a  curtain  between  them  and  the  sun  ;  and  neither  thought  nor  event 
had  penetrated  the  fortification  of  silence  and  neglect  which  environed  them. 
Edward  Villiers  came  ;  and  as  mist  flies  before  the  wind,  so  did  all  Ethel's 
depression  disappear  when  his  voice  only  met  her  ear :  his  step  on  the  stairs 
announced  happiness  ;  and  when  he  was  indeed  before  her,  light  and  day 
displaced  every  remnant  of  cheerless  obscurity. 

The  abstracted,  wounded,  yet  lofty  spirit  of  Lodore  was  totally  dissimi- 
lar to  the  airy  brightness  of  Villiers'  disposition.  Lodore  had  outlived  a 
storm,  and  shown  himself  majestic  in  ruin.  No  ill  had  tarnished  the  nature 
of  Villiers :  he  enjoyed  life,  he  was  in  good  humour  with  the  world,  and 
thou.ht  well  of  mankind.  Lodore  had  endangered  his  peace  from  the  vio- 
lence of  passion,  and  reaped  misery  from  the  pride  of  his  soul.  Villiers 
was  imprudent  from  his  belief  in  the  goodness  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and 
imparted  happiness  from  the  store  that  his  warm  heart  ensured  to  himself. 
The  one  had  never  been  a  boy — the  other  had  not  yet  learned  to  be  a  man. 

Ethel's  heart  had  been  filled  by  her  father  ;  and  all  affection,  all  interest, 
borrowed  their  force  from  his  memory.  She  did  not  think  of  love  ;  and 
while  Villiers  was  growing  into  a  part  of  her  life,  becoming  knit  to  her  ex- 
istence by  daily  habit,  and  a  thousand  thoughts  expended  on  him,  she  enter- 
tained his  idea  chiefly  as  having  been  the  friend  of  Lodore.  "He  is  cer- 
taily  the  kindest-hearted  creature  in  the  world."  This  was  the  third  time 
that,  when  laying  her  gentle  head  upon  the  pillow,  this  feeling  came  like  a 
blessing  to  her  closing  eyes.  She  heard  his  voice  in  the  silence  of  night, 
even  more  distinctly  than  when  it  was  addressed  to  her  outward  sense 
during  the  day.  For  the  first  time  after  the  lapse  of  months,  she  found  one 
to  whom  she  could  spontaneously  utter  every  thought,  as  it  rose  in  her 
mind.  A  fond,  elder  brother,  if  such  ever  existed,  cherishing  the  confidence 
and  tenderness  of  a  beloved  sister,  might  fill  the  place  which  her  new  friend 
assumed  for  Ethel.  She  thought  of  him  with  overflowing  affection  ;  and 
the  name  of  "  Mr.  Villiers"  sometimes  fell  from  her  lips  in  solitude,  and 
hung  upon  her  ear  like  sweetest  music.  In  early  life  there  is  a  moment 
—  perhaps  of  all  the  enchantments  of  love  it  is  the  one  which  is  never  re- 
newed —  when  passion,  unacknowledged  to  ourselves,  imparts  greater  de- 
light than  any  after-stage  of  that  ever  progressive  sentiment.  "VVe  neither 
7* 


78  LODORE. 

wish  nor  expect.  A  new  joy  has  risen,  like  the  sun,  upon  our  lives  ;  and 
we  rejoice  in  the  radiance  of  morning,  without  adverting  to  the  noon  and 
twilight  that  is  to  follow.  Ethel  stood  on  the  threshold  of  womanhood  :  the 
door  of  life  had  been  closed  before  her; — a s;ain  it  was  thrown  open, — 
and  the  sudden  splendour  that  manifested  itself  blinded  her  to  the  forms  of 
the  objects  of  menace  or  injury,  which  a  more  experienced  eye  would  have 
discerned  within  the  brightness  of  her  new-found  day. 

Ethel  expressed  a  wish  to  visit  Etcn.  In  talking  of  the  past,  Lord  Lodore 
had  never  adverted  to  any  events  except  those  which  had  occurred  during 
his  boyish  days.  His  youthful  pleasures  and  exploits  had  often  made  a 
part  of  their  conversation.  He  had  traced  for  her  a  plan  of  Eton  college, 
and  the  surrounding  scenery  ;  spoken  of  the  trembling  delight  he  had  felt 
in  escaping  from  bounds  ;  and  told  how  he  and  Derham  had  passed  happy 
hours  beside  the  clear  streams,  and  beneath  the  copses,  of  that  rural  country. 
There  was  one  fountain  which  he  delighted  to  celebrate  ;  and  the  ivied 
ruins  of  an  old  monastery,  now  become  a  part  of  a  farm-yard,  which  had 
been  to  these  friends  the  bodily  image  of  many  imaginary  scenes.  Among 
the  sketches  of  Whitelock  were  several  taken  in  the  vicinity  of  Windsor  ; 
and  there  were  in  his  portfolio  studies  of  trees,  cottages,  and  also  of  this 
same  abbey,  which  Lodore  instantly  recognised.  To  many  he  had  some 
appending  anecdote,  some  school-boy  association.  He  had  purchased  the 
whole  collection  from  Whitelock.  Ethel  had  copied  a  few  ;  and  these, 
together  with  various  sketches  made  in  the  Illinois,  formed  her  dearest 
treasure,  more  precious  in  her  eyes  than  diamonds  and  rubies. 

We  are  most  jealous  of  what  sits  nearest  to  our  hearts  ;  and  we  must 
love  fondly  before  we  can  let  another  into  the  secret  of  those  trivial,  but 
cherished  emotions,  which  form  the  dearest  portion  of  our  solitary  medita- 
tions. Ethel  had  several  times  been  on  the  point  of  proposing  a  visit  to 
Eton,  to  her  aunt ;  but  there  was  an  awful  sacredness  in  the  very  name, 
which  acted  like  a  spell  upon  her  imagination.  When  first  it  fell  from  her 
lips,  the  word  seemed  echoed  by  unearthly  whisperings,  and  she  fled  from 
the  idea  of  goin^  thither,  —  as  it  is  the  feminine  disposition  often  to  do,  from 
the  full  accomplishment  of  its  wishes,  as  if  disaster  must  necessarily  be 
linked  to  the  consummation  of  their  desires.  But  a  word  was  enough  for 
Villiers  :  he  eagerly  solicited  permission  to  escort  them  thither,  as,  being 
an  Etonian  himself,  his  guidance  would  be  of  great  advantage.  Ethel 
faltered  her  consent ;  and 'the  struggle  of  delight  and  sensibility  made  that 
project  appear  painful,  which  was  indeed  the  darling  of  her  thoughts. 

On  a  bright  day  in  the  first  week  of  May,  they  made  this  excursion. 
Thev  repaired  to  one  of  the  inns  at  Salt  Hill,  and  prolonged  their  walks 
and  drives  about  the  country.  In  some  of  the  former,  where  old  walls  were 
to  be  scrambled  up,  and  rivulets  overleaped,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  remained  at 
the  hotel,  and  Ethel  and  Villiers  pursued  their  rambles  together.  Ethel's 
whole  soul  was  given  up  to  the  deep  filial  love  that  had  induced  the  journey. 
Every  green  field  was  a  stage  on  which  her  father  had  played  a  part ;  each 
majestic  tree,  or  humble  streamlet,  was  hallowed  by  being  associated  with 
his  image.  The  pleasant,  verdant  beauty  of  the  landscape,  clad  in  all  the 
brightness  of  early  summer;  the  sunny,  balmy  day  —  the  clouds  which 
pranked  the  heavens  with  bright  and  floating  shapes  —  each  hedge- row,  and 
each  cottage,  with  its  trim  garden — each  imbowered  nook — had  a  voice 
which  was  »r;usic  to  her  soul.  From  the  college  of  Eton  they  sought  the 
dame's  house  where  Lodore  and  Derham  had  lived  ;  then  crossing  the 
brid  ze,  they  entered  Windsor,  and  prolonged  their  walk  into  the  forest. 
Ethel  knew  even  the  rustic  names  of  the  spots  she  most  desired  to  visit, 
and  to  these  Villiers  led  her  in  succession.  Day  declined  before  they  got 
home,  and  found  Mrs.  Elizabeth,  and  their  repast,  waiting  them  ;  and  the 
evening  was  enlivened  by  many  a  tale  of  boyish  pranks,  achieved  by  Villiers, 


fcODORE.  79 

in  these  scenes.  The  following  morning  they  set  forth  again  ;  and  three 
days  were  spent  in  these  delightful  wanderings.  Ethel  would  willino-lv 
never  have  quitted  this  spot :  it  appeared  to  her  as  if,  seeing  all.  still  much 
remained  to  be  seen  —  as  if  she  could  never  exhaust  the  variety  of  sentiments 
and  deep  interest  which  endeared  every  foot  of  this  to  her  so  holy  °round. 
Nor  were  her  emotions  silent,  and  the  softness  of  her  voice,  and  the  flowing 
eloquence  with  which  she  expressed  herself,  formed  a  new  charm  for  her 
companion. 

Sometimes  her  heart  was  too  full  to  admit  of  expression,  and  grief  for 
her  father's  loss  was  renewed  in  all  its  pristine  bitterness.  One  day,  on 
feeling  herself  thus  overcome,  she  quitted  h-;r  companions,  and  sought  the 
shady  walks  of  the  garden  of  the  hotel,  to  indulge  in  a  gush  of  sorrow  which 
she  could  not  repress.  There  was  something  in  her  gesture  and  manner  as 
she  left  them,  that  reminded  Villiers  of  Lady  Lodore.  It  was  one  of  those 
mysterious  family  resemblances,  which  are  so  striking  and  powerful,  and 
yet  which  it  is  impossible  to  point  out  to  a  stranger.  A  bligh  (as  this  inde- 
scribable resemblance  is  called  in  some  parts  of  England)  of  her  mother 
struck  Villiers  forcibly,  and  he  suddenly  asked  Mrs.  Elizabeth,  "  If  Miss 
Fitzh  mry  had  never  expressed  a  desire  to  see  Lady  Lodore." 

"God  forbid!"  exclaimed  the  old  lady;  "it  was  my  brother's  dying 
wish,  that  she  should  never  hear  Lady  Lodore's  name,  and  I  have  "reli- 
giously observed  it.  Ethel  only  knows  that  she  was  the  cause  of  her 
father's  misfortunes,  that  she  deserted  every  duty,  and  is  unworthy  of  the 
name  she  bears." 

Villiers  was  astonished  at  this  tirade  falling  from  (he  lips  of  the  unusu- 
ally placid  maiden,  whose  heightened  colour  bespoke  implacable  resent- 
ment. "  Do  not  mention  that  woman's  name,  Mr.  Villiers,"  she  continued ; 
"  I  am  convinced  that  I  should  die  on  the  spot  if  I  saw  her ;  she  is  as  much 
a  murderess,  as  if  she  had  stabbed  her  husband  to  the  heart  with  a  dagger. 
Her  letter  to  me  that  I  sent  to  my  poor  brother  in  America,  was  more  the 
cause  of  his  death,  I  am  sure,  than  all  the  duels  in  the  world.  Lady  Lo- 
dore !  I  often  wonder  a  thunderbolt  from  heaven  does  not  tall  on  and  kill 
her!" 

Mrs.  Elizabeth's  violence  was  checked  by  seeing  Ethel  cross  the  road  to 
return.     Promise  not  to  mention  her  name  to  my  niece,"  she  cried. 

"  For  the  present  be  assured  that  I  will  not,"  Villiers  answered.  He 
had  been  struck  most  painfully  by  some  of  Mrs.  Elizabeth  s  expressions  ; 
they  implied  so  much  more  of  misconduct  on  Lady  Lodore's  part,  than  he 
had  ever  suspected  —  but  he  must  know  best ;  and  it  seemed  to  him,  in- 
deed, the  probable  interpretation  of  the  mystery  that  enveloped  her  separa- 
tion from  her  husband.  The  account  spread  by  Lady  Santerre,  and  cur- 
rent in  the  world,  appeared  inadequate  and  improbable  ;  Lodore  would  not 
have  dared  to  take  her  child  from,  her,  but  on  heavier  grounds  ;  it  was  then 
true,  that  a  dark  and  disgraceful  secret  was  hidden  in  her  heart,  and  that 
her  proprietv,  her  good  reputation,  her  seeming  pride  of  innocence,  were 
but  the  mask  to  cover  the  reality  that  divided  her  from  her  daughter  for 
ever. 

Villiers  was  well  acquainted  with  Lady  Lodore ;  circumstances  had 
caused  him  to  take  a  deep  interest  in  her  —  these  were  now  at  an  end  :  but 
the  singular  coincidences  that  had  brought  him  in  contact  with  her  daugh- 
ter, renewed  many  forgotten  images,  and  caused  him  to  dwell  on  the  past 
with  mixed  curiositv  and  uneasiness.  Airs.  Elizabeth's  expressions  added 
to  the  perplexity  of  his  ideas  ;  their  chief  effect  was  to  tarnish  to  his  mind 
eh^  name  of  Ladv  Lodore,  and  to  make  him  rejoice  at  the  termination  that 
fead  been  put  to  their  more  intimate  connexion, 


6$  LOD0RB> 


CHAPTER    XX. 

One,  within  whose  subtle  being-, 
As  liarht  and  wind  within  some  d>'*c<ite  cloudy 
Tliat  tades  ami<i  the  blue  noon's  turning  sky, 
Genius  and  youth  contended. 

Shelley, 

The  party  returned  to  town,  and  on  the  following  evening  they  wen? 
to  the  Italian  opera.  For  the  first  time  since  her  father's  death,  Ethel  threw 
aside  her  mourning  attire :  for  the  first  time  also,  she  made  --ne  of  tie 
audience  at  the  King's  Theatre.  She  went  to  hear  the  music,  and  to 
spend  the  evening  with  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  was  drawn  to- 
wards her  by  feelings  of  kindness  and  sympathy  —  the  only  person  —  bus 
that  sufficed.  His  being  near  her  was  the  occasion  of  more  delight  than 
if  she  had  been  made  the  associate  of  regal  splendour.  Yet  it  was  no- 
defined  or  disturbing  sentiment,  that  sat  so  lightly  on  her  bosom  and  shone 
in  her  eyes..  Hers  was  the  first  gentle  opening  of  a  girl's  heart,  who 
does  not  busy  herself  with  the  future,  and  reposes  on  the  serene  present  with 
unquestioning  confidence.  She  looked  round  on  the  gay  world  assembled,, 
and  thought,  "  All  are  as  happy  as  I  am*"  She  listened  to  the  music  with 
a  subdued  but  charmed  spirit,  and  turned  now  and  then  to  her  companions 
with  a  glad  smile,  expressive  of  her  delight  Fewer  words  were  spoken  in 
their  little  box  probably  than  in  any  in  the  house  ;  but  in  none  were  con- 
gregated three  hearts  so  guileless,  and  so  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  portiorr 
allotted  to  them..  • 

At  length  both  opera  and  ballet  were  over,  and,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Vil- 
hers,  the  ladies  entered  the  round-room.  The  house  had  been  very  full,  and 
the  crowd  was  great.  A  seat  was  obtained  for  Aunt  Bessy  on  one  of  the 
sofas  near  the  door,  which  opened  on  the  principal  staircase.  Villiers  and 
Ethel  stood  near  her.  When  the  crowd  had  thinned  a  little,  Villiers  went 
to  look  for  the  servant,  and  Ethel  remained  surveying  the  moving  num- 
bers with  curiosity,  wondering  at  her  own  fate,  that  while  every  one  seemed 
familiar  one  to  the  other,  she  knew,  and  w7as  known  by,  none.  She  did 
not  repine  at  this ;  Villiers  had  dissipated  the  sense  of  desertion  which 
before  haunted  her,  and  she  was  much  entertained,  as  she  heard  the  re- 
marks and  interchange  of  compliments  going  on  about  her.  Her  attention 
was  particularly  attracted  by  a  very  beautiful  woman,  or  rather  girl  she 
seemed,  standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  conversing  with  a  very  tal? 
personage,  to  whom  she,  being  not  above  the  middle  size,  looked  up  as 
she  talked ;  which  action,  perhaps,  added  to  her  youthful  appearance. 
There  was  an  ease  in  her  manners  that  bespoke  a  matron  as  to  station. 
She  was  dressed  very  simply  in  white,  without  any  ornament ;  her  cloak 
hung  carelessly  from  her  shoulders,  and  gave  to  view  her  round  symmet- 
rical figure  ;  her  silky,  chesnut-coloured  hair,  fell  in  thick  ringlets  round 
her  face,  and  was  gathered  with  inimitable  elegance  in  large  knots  on  the 
top  of  her  head.  There  was  something  bewitching  in  her  animated  smile, 
and  sensibility  beamed  from  her  long  and  dark  gray  eyes  ;  her  simple 
gesture  as  she  placed  her  little  hand  on  her  cloak,  her  attitude  as  she 
stood,  were  wholly  unpretending,  but  graceful  beyond  measure.  Ether 
watched  her  unobserved,  with  admiration  and  interest,  so  that  she  almost 
forgot  where  she  was,  until  the  voice  of  Villiers  recalled  her.  "  Your 
carriage  is  up  —  will  you  come?"  The  lady  turned  as  he  spoke,  and  re- 
cognised him  with  a  cordial  and  most  sweet  smile.    They  moved  on,  while 


LODORE.  *81 

Ethel  turned  back  to  look  again,  as  her  carriage  was  loudly  called,  and 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  seizing  her  arm,  whispered  out  of  breath,  "  Oh,  my  dear,  do 
make  haste  !"  She  hurried  on,  therefore,  and  her  glance  was  momentary  • 
but  she  saw  with  wonder,  that  the  lady  was  looking  with  eagerness  at  the 
party;  she  caught  Ethel's  eye,  blushed,  and  turned  away,  while  the  fold- 
ing doo~s  closed,  and  with  a  kind  of  nervous  trepidation  her  companions 
descended  the  stairs.  In  a  moment  the  ladies  were  in  their  carriage, 
which  drove  off,  while  Mrs.  Elizabeth  exclaimed  in  the  tone  of  one  aghast, 
"  Thank  God,  we  got  away  !  Oh,  Ethel,  that  was  Lady  Lodore  !" 
"My  mother  !  — impossible  !" 

"  Oh,  that  we  had  never  come  to  town,"  continued  her  aunt  "  Long 
have  I  prayed  that  I  might  never  see  her  again  ;  —  and  she  looking  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  and  that  Lodore  had  not  died  through  her  means  ! 
Wicked,  wicked  woman  !   I  will  not  stav  in  London  a  day  longer !" 

Ethel  did  not  interrupt  her  ravings  :  she  remembered  Captain  Afarkham, 
and  could  not  believe  but  that  her  aunt  laboured  under  some  similar  mis- 
take ;  it  was  ridiculous  to  imagine,  that  this  girlish-looking,  lovely  bein^, 
had  been  the  wife  of  her  father,  whom  she  remembered  with  his  high  fore- 
head rather  bare  of  hair,  his  deep  marked  countenance,  his  look  that  bespoke 
more  than  matu-e  a^e.  Her  aunt  was  mistaken,  she  felt  sure  ;  and  yet 
when  she  closed  her  eyes,  the  beautiful  figure  she  had  seen,  stole,  according 
to  the  Arabian  innate,  beneath  her  lids,  and  smiled  sweetly,  and  again 
started  forward  to  look  after  her.  This  little  act  seemed  to  confirm  what 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  said;  and  yet,  again,  it  was  impossible!  "Had  she  been 
named  my  sister,  there  were  something  in  it  —  but  my  mother, — impos- 
sible !" 

Yet  strange  as  it  seemed,  it  was  so ;  in  this  instance,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  had 
not  deceived  herself;  and  thus  it  was  that  two  so  near  of  kin  as  mother  and 
daughter,  met,  it  misht  be  said,  for  the  first  time.  Villiers  was  inexpressi- 
bly shocked  ;  and  believing  that  Lady  Lodore  must  suffer  keenly  from  so 
strange  and  unnatural  an  incident,  his  first  kindly  impulse  was  to  seek  to 
see  her  on  the  following  morning.  During  her  absence,  the  violent  attack 
of  her  sister-in-law  had  weighed  with  him,  but  her  look  at  once  dissipated 
his  uneasy  douKts.  There  was  that  in  this  lady,  which  no  man  could  re- 
sist ;  she  had  joined  to  her  beauty,  the  charm  of  engaging;  manr  drs,  made  up 
of  natural  grace,  vivacity,  intuitive  tact,  and  soft  sensibility,  vhich  infused  a 
kind  of  idolatry  into  the  admiration  with  whici  she  was  universally  regarded. 
But  it  was  not  the  beauty  and  fashion  of  Lady  Lodore  which  caused  Vil- 
liers to  take  a  deep  interest  in  her.  His  intercourse  with  her  had  been  of 
long  standing,  and  the  object  of  his  very  voyage  to  America  was  intimately 
connected  with  her. 

Edward  Villiers  was  the  son  of  a  man  of  fortune.  His  father  had  been 
left  a  widower  young  in  life,  with  this  only  child,  who,  thus  single  and  soli- 
tary in  his  paternal  home,  became  almost  adopted  into  the  family  of  his 
mother's  brother,  Viscount  Maristow.  This  nobleman  being  rich,  married, 
and  blessed  with  a  numerous  progeny,  the  presence  of  little  Edward  was 
not  felt  as  a  burden,  and  he  was  brought  up  with  his  cousins  like  one  of 
them.  Among  these  it  would  have  been  hard  if  Villiers  could  not  have 
found  an  especial  friend  :  this  was  not  the  elder  son,  who,  much  his  senior, 
looked  down  upon  him  with  friendly  regard  ;  it  was  the  second,  who  was 
likewise  several  vears  older.  Horatio  Saville  was  a  being  fashioned  for 
every  virtue  and  distinguished  by  every  excellence ;  to  know  that  a  thing 
was  right  to  be  done,  was  enough  to  impel  Horatio  to  go  through  fire  and 
water  to  do  it  ;  he  was  one  of  those  who  seem  not  to  belong  to  this  world, 
yet  who  adorn  it  most ;  conscientious,  upright,  and  often  cold  in  seeming, 
because  he  could  always  master  his  passions  ;  good  over-much,  he  might 
be  called,  but  that  there  was  no  pedantry  nor  harshness  in  his  nature.  Reso- 


82  LODORE. 

lute,  aspiring,  and  true,  his  noble  purposes  and  studious  soul  demanded  a 
frame  of  iron,  and  he  had  one  of  the  frailest  mechanism.  It  was  not  that 
he  was  not  tall,  well-shaped,  with  earnest  eyes,  a  brow  built  up  high  to  re- 
ceive, and  entertain  a  capacious  mind  ;  but  he  was  thin  and  shadowy,  a 
hectic  flushed  hjs  cheek,  and  his  voice  was  broken  and  mournful.  At  school 
he  held  the  topmost  place,  at  college  he  was  distinguished  by  the  energy 
with  which  he  pursued  his  studies  ;  and  these,  so  opposite  from  what  might 
have  been  expected  to  be  the  pursuits  of  his  ardent  mind,  were  abstruse 
metaphysics  —  the  highest  and  most  theoretical  mathematics,  and  cross- 
grained  argument,  based  upon  hair-fine  logic  ;  to  these  he  addicted  him- 
self. His  desire  was  knowledge  ;  his  passion  truth  ;  his  eager  and  never- 
sleeping  endeavour  was  to  inform  and  to  satisfy  his  understanding. .  Villiers 
waited  on  him,  as  an  inferior  spirit  may  attend  an  archangel,  and  gathered 
from  him  the  crumbs  of  his  knowledge,  with  gladness  and  content.  He 
could  n^t  force  his  boyish  mind  to  similar  exertions,  nor  feel  that  keen  thirst 
for  knowledge  that  kept  alive  his  cousin's  application,  though  he  could  ad- 
mire and  love  these  with  fervour,  when  exhibited  in  another.  It  was  indeed 
a  singular  fact,  that  this  constant  contemplation  of  so  superior  a  being 
added  to  his  careless  turn  of  mind.  Not  to  be  like  Horatio  was  to  be  nothing 
—  to  be  like  him  was  impossible.  So  he  was  content  to  remain  one  of  the 
half-ignorant  uninformed  creatures  most  men  are,  and  to  found  his  pride 
upon  his  affection  for  his  cousin,  who,  being  several  years  older,  might  well 
be  advanced  even  beyond  his  emulation.  Horatio  himself  did  not  desire  to 
be  imitated  by  the  light-hearted  Edward  ;  he  was  too  familiar  with  the  ex- 
haustion, the  sadness,  the  disappointment  of  his  pursuits  ;  he  coidd  not  be 
otherwise  himself,  but  he  thought  all  that  he  aspired  after  was  well  exchan- 
ged for  the  sparkling  eyes,  exhaustless  spirits,  and  buoyant  step  of  Villiers. 
We  none  of  us  wish  to  exchange  our  identity  for  that  of  another  ;  yet  we  are 
never  satisfied  with  ourselves.  The  unknown  has  always  a  charm,  and 
unless  blinded  by  miserable  vanity,  we  know  ourselves  too  well  to  appre- 
ciate our  especial  characteristics  at  a  very  high  rate.  "When  Horace  after 
deep  midnight  study,  felt  his  brain  still  working  like  a  thousand  mill-wheels, 
that  cannot  be  stopped  ;  when  sleep  fled  from  him,  and  his  exhausted  mind 
could  no  longer  continue  its  labours  —  he  envied  the  light  slumbers  of  his 
cousin,  whici>  followed  exercise  and  amusement.  Villiers  loved  and  revered 
him ;  and  he  teit  drawn  closer  to  him  than  towards  any  of  his  brothers, 
and  strove  to  refine  his  taste  and  regulate  his  conduct  through  his  admoni- 
tions and  example,  while  he  abstained  from  following  him  in  the  steep  and 
thorny  path  he  had  selected. 

Horatio  quitted  college  ,  he  was  no  longer  a  youth,  and  his  manhood  be- 
came as  studious  as  hid  younger  days.  He  had  no  desire  but  for  know- 
ledge, no  thought  but  for  the  nobler  creations  of  the  soul,  and  the  discern- 
ment of  the  sublime  laws  of  God  and  nature.  He  nourished  the  ambition 
of  showing  to  these  latter  days  what  scholars  of  old  had  been,  though  this 
feeling  was  subservient  to  his  instinctive  love  of  learning,  and  his  wish  to 
adorn  his  mind  with  the  indefeasible  attributes  of  truth.  He  was  univer- 
sally respected  and  loved,  though  little  understood.  His  young  cousin  Ed- 
ward only  was  aware  of  the  earnestness  of  his  affections,  and  the  sensibility 
that  nestled  itself  in  his  warm  heart.  He  was  outwardly  mild,  placid,  and 
forbearing,  and  thus  obtained  the  reputation  of  being  cold — though  those 
who  study  human  nature  ought  to  make  it  their  first  maxim,  that  those  who 
are  tolerant  of  the  follies  of  their  fellows —  who  sympathize  with,  and  as- 
sist their  wishes,  and  who  apparently  forget  their  own  desires,  as  they  devote 
themselves  to  the  accomplishment  of  those  of  their  friends,  must  have  the 
quickest  feelings,  to  make  them  enter  into  and  understand  those  of  others, 
and  the  warmest  affections,  to  be  able  to  conquer  their  wayward  humours, 


LODORE.  53 

so  that  they  can  divest  themselves  of  selfishness,  and  incorporate  in  their 
own  being  thepleasures  and  pains  of  those  around  them. 

The  sparkflfljg  eve»  ^e  languid  step,  and  flushed  cheek  of  Horatio  Sa- 
ville,  were  all  tokens  that  there  burned  within  him  a  spirit  too  strong  for  his 
frame  ;  but  he  never  complained  ;  or  if  he  ever  poured  out  his  pent-up 
emotions,  it  was  in  the  ear  of  Edward  only  ;  who  but  partly  understood 
him,  but  who  loved  him  entirely.  What  that  thirst  for  knowledge  was  that 
preyed  on  him,  and  for  ever  urged  him  to  drink  of  the  purest  streams  of 
wisdom,  and  yet  which  ever  left  him  unsatisfied,  fevered,  and  mournful,  the 
gay  spirit  of  Edward  Villiers  could  not  guess  :  often  he  besought  his  cousin 
to  close  his  musty  books,  to  mount  a  rapid  horse,  to  give  his  studies  to  the 
winds,  and  deliver  his  soul  to  nature.     But  Horace  pointed  to  some  uncx- 

Elained  passage  in  Plato  the  divine,  or  some  undiscovered  problem  in  the 
igher  sciences,  and  turned  his  eyes  from  the  sun  ;  or  if  indeed  he  yielded, 
and  accompanied  his  youthful  friend,  some  appearance  of  earth  or  air 
would  awaken  his  curiosity,  rouse  his  slumbering  mind  again  to  inquire, 
and  making  his  study  of  the  wide  cope  of  heaven,  he  gave  himself  up  to 
abstruse  meditation,  while  nominally  seeking  for  relaxation  from  his  heavier 
toils. 

Horatio  Saville  was  nine-and-twenty  when  he  first  met  Lady  Lodoro, 
who  was  nearly  of  the  same  age.  He  had  begun  to  feel  mat  his  heal. i  was 
shaken,  and  he  tried  to  forget  for  a  time  his  devouring  avocations.  He 
changed  the  scene,  and  went  on  a  visit  to  a  friend,  who  had  a  country  house 
not  far  from  Hastings.  Lady  Lodore  was  expected  as  a  guest,  together 
with  her  mother.  She  was  much  talked  of,  having  become  an  object  of 
interest  or  curiosity  to  the  many.  A  mystery  hung  over  her  fate  ;  but  her 
reputation  was  cloudless,  and  she  was  warmly  supp .  ted  by  the  leaders  of 
fashion.  Saville  heard  of  her  beauty  and  her  sufferings  ;  the  injustice  with 
which  she  had  been  treated  — of  her  magnanimity  and  desolate  condition  ; 
he  heard  of  her  talents,  her  powers  of  conversation,  her  fashion.  He 
figured  to  himself  (as  we  are  apt  to  incarnate  to  our  imagination  the  various 
qualities  of  a  human  being,  of  whom  we  hear  much)  a  woman,  brilliant, 
but. rather  masculine,  majestic  in  figure,  with  wild  dark  eyes,  and  a  very 
determined  manner.  Lady  Lodore  came :  she  entered  the  room  where  he 
was  sitting,  and  the  fabric  of  his  fancy  was  at  once  destroyed.  He  saw  a 
sweet-looking  woman  ;  serene,  fair,  and  with  a  countenance  expressive  of 
contented  happiness.  He  found  that  her  manners  were  winning,  from  their 
softness  ;  her  conversation  was  delightful,  from  its  total  want  of  pretension 
or  impertinence. 

What  the  power  was,  that,  from  the  first  moment  they  met,  drew  Horatio 
Saville  and  Lady  Lodore  together,  is  one  of  those  natural  secrets  which  it 
is  impossible  to  explain.  Though  a  student,  Saville  was  a  gentleman,  with 
the  manners  and  appearance  of  the  better  specimens  of  our  aristocracy. 
There  might  be  something  in  his  look  of  ill  health,  which  demanded  sym- 
pathy ;  something  in  his  superiority  to  the  rest  of  the  persons  about  her,  in 
the  genius  that  sat  on  his  brow,  and  the  eloquence  that  flowed  from  his 
lips  ;  something  in  the  contrast  he  presented  to  every  one  else  she  had  ever 
seen  —  neither  entering  into  their  gossiping  slanders,  nor  understanding 
their  empty  self-sufficiency,  that  possessed  a  charm  for  one  satiated  with 
the  world's  common  scenes.  It  was  less  of  wonder  that  Cornelia  pleased 
the  student.  There  were  no  rough  corners,  no  harshness  about  her  ;  she 
won  her  way  into  any  heart  by  her  cheerful  smiles  and  kind  tones  ;  and 
she  listened  to  Saville  when  he  talked  of  what  other  women  would  have 
lent  a  languid  ear  to,  with  such  an  air  of  interest,  that  he  found  no  pleasure 
so  great  as  that  of  talking  on. 

Saville  was  accustomed  to  find  the  men  of  his  acquaintance  ignorant. 
All  the  knowledge  of  worldlings  was  as  a  point  in  comparison  with  his  vast 


LODORE. 


acquirements.  He  did  next  seek  Lady  Lodore's  society  either  to  learn  or  to 
teach,  but  to  forget  thought,  and  to  feel  himself  occupied  anjj^iiverted  from 
the  sense  of  listlessness  that  haunted  him  in  society,  withoutWving  recourse 
to  the,  to  him  dangerous,  attraction  of  his  books. 

Lady  Lodore  had,  in  the  very  brightness  of  her  earliest  youth,  selected  a 
proud  and  independent  position.  She  had  refused  to  bend  to  her  husband's 
will,  or  to  submit  to  the  tyranny,  as  she  named  it,  which  he  had  attempted 
to  exercise.  Youth  is  bold  and  fearless.  The  forked  tongue  of  scandal, 
the  thousand  ills  with  which  woman  is  threatened  in  society,  without  a 
fjuide  or  a  protector  —  all  the  worldly  considerations  which  might  lead  her 
to  unite  herself  again  to  her  husband,  she  had  rejected  with  unbounded  dis- 
dain. Her  mother  was  there  to  stand  between  her  and  the  shafts  of  envy 
and  calumny,  and  she  conceived  no  mistrust  of  herself;  she  believed  that 
she  could  hold  her  course  with  taintless  feelings  and  security  of  soul,  through 
a  thousand  dangers.  At  first  she  had  been  somewhat  annoyed  by  ill-natured, 
observations,  but  Lady  Santerre  poured  the  balm  of  flattery  on  her  wounds, 
and  a  few  tears  shed  in  her  presence  dissipated  the  gathering  cloud. 

Cornelia  had  every  motive  a  woman  could  have  for  guarding  her  conduct 
from  reproach.  She  lived  in  the  midst  of  polished  society,  and  was  tho- 
roughly imbued  with  its  maxims  and  laws.  She  witnessed  the  downfall  of 
several,  as  young  and  lovely  as  herself,  and  heard  the  sarcasms  and  beheld 
the  sneers  which  were  heaped  as  a  tomb  above  their  buried  fame.  She  had 
vowed  to  herself  never  to  become  one  of  these.  She  was  applauded  for  her 
pride,  and  held  up  as  a  pattern.  No  one  feared  her.  She  was  no  coquette, 
though  she  strove  universally  to  please.  She  formed  no  intimate  friend- 
ships, though  every  man  felt  honoured  by  her  notice.  She  had  no  prudery 
on  her  lips,  but  her  conduct  was  as  open,  as  fair,  as  day.  Here  lay  her  de- 
fence against  her  husband ;  and  she  preserved  even  the  outposts  of  such 
bulwarks  with  scrupulous  yet  unobtrusive  exactitude. 

Her  spirits,  as  well  as  her  spirit,  held  her  up  through  many  a  year. 
More  than  ten  years  had  passed  since  her  separation  from  Lodore  —  a  long 
time  to  tell  of ;  but  it  had  glided  away,  she  scarcely  knew  how — taking 
little  from  her  loveliness,  adding  to  the  elegance  of  her  appearance,  and  the 
grace  of  her  manners.  Season  after  season  came,  and  went,  and  she  had 
no  motive  for  counting  them  anxiously.  She  was  sought  after  and  admir- 
ed ;  it  was  a  holyday  life  for  her,  and  she  wondered  what  people  meant 
when  they  spoke  of  the  delusions  of  this  world,  and  the  dangers  of  our  own 
hearts.  She  saw  a  gay  reality  about  her,  and  felt  the  existence  of  no  inter- 
nal enemy.  Nothing  ever  moved  her  to  sorrow,  except  the  reflection  that 
now  and  then  came  across,  that  she  had  a  child  —  divorced  for  ever  from 
her  maternal  bosom.  The  sight  of  a  baby  cradled  in  its  mother's  arms,  or 
stretching  out  its  little  hands  to  her,  had  not  unoften  caused  her  to  turn 
abruptly  away,  to  hide  her  tears  ;  and  once  or  twice  she  had  been  obliged 
to  quit  a  theatre  to  conceal  her  emotion,  when  such  sentiments  were  brought 
too  vividly  before  her.  But  when  her  eyes  were  drowned  in  tears,  and  her 
bosom  heaved  with  sad  emotion,  pride  came  to  check  the  torrent,  and  hatred 
of  her  oppressor  gave  a  new  impulse  to  her  swelling  heart. 

She  had  rather  avoided  female  friendships,  and  had  been  warned  from 
them  by  the  treachery  of  one,  and  the  misconduct  of  another,  of  her  more 
intimate  acquaintances.  Lady  Lodore  renounced  friendship,  but  the  world 
began  to  grow  a  little  dull.  The  frivolity  of  one,  the  hard-heartedness  of 
another,  disgusted.  She  saw  each  occupied  by  themselves  and  their  fami- 
lies, and  she  was  alone.  Balls  and  assemblies  palled  upon  her  —  country 
pleasures  were  stupid  —  she  had  begun  to  think  all  things  "  stale  and  un- 
profitable," when  she  became  acquainted  with  Horatio  Saville.  She  was 
glad  again  to  feel  animated  with  a  sense  of  living  enjoyment;  she  congrat- 
ulated herself  on  the  idea  that  she  could  take  interest  in  some  one  thing 


LODORE.  85 

or  person  among  the  empty  shapes  that  surrounded  her ;  and  without  a 
thought  beyond. the  amusement  of  the  present  moment,  most  of  her  hours 
were  spent  in  his  company. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Ah,  now,  ye  gentle  pair,  —  now  think  a  while,  •. 

Wow,  while  ye  still  can  think  and  still  can  smile. 

*  *  * 

So  did  they  think 
Only  with  graver  thoughts,  and  smiles  reduced. 

Leigh  Hunt, 

A  month  stole  away  as  if  it  had  been  a  day,  and  Lady  Lodore  was  en- 
gaged to  pass  some  weeks  with  another  friend  in  a  distant  county.  It 
was  easily  contrived,  without  contrivance,  by  Saville,  that  he  should  visit  a 
relation  who  lived  within  a  morning's  ride  of  her  new  abode.  The  restric- 
tion placed  upon  their  intercourse  while  residing  under  different  loofs  con- 
trasted painfully  with  the  perfect  freedom  they  had  enjoyed  while  inhabit- 
ing the  same.  Their  attachment  was  too  young  and  too  unacknowledged 
to  need  the  zest  of  difficulty.  It  required  indeed  the  facility  of  an  unob- 
structed path  for  it  to  proceed  to  the  accustomed  bourne  ;  and  a  straw 
thrown  across  was  sufficient  to  check  its  course  for  ever. 

The  impatience  and  restlessness  which  Cornelia  experienced  during  her 
journey ;  the  rush  of  transport  that  thrilled  through  her  when  she  heard  of 
Saville's  arrival  at  a  neighboring  mansion,  awoke  her  in  an  instant  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  true  state  of  her  heart.  Her  pride  was,  happily  for  her- 
self, united  to  presence  of  mind  and  fortitude.  She  felt  the  invasion  of  the 
enemy,  and  she  lost  not  a  moment  in  repelling  the  dangers  that  menaced 
her.  She  resolved  to  be  true  to  the  line  of  conduct  she  had  marked  out  for 
herself —  she  determined  not  to  love.  She  did  not  alter  her  manner  nor 
her  actions.  She  met  Horatio  with  the  same  sweet  smile —  she  conversed  with 
the  same  kind  interest ;  but  she  did  not  indulge  in  one  dream,  one  thought 
—  one  reverie  (sweet  food  of  love)  during  his  absence,  and  guarded  over 
herself  that  no  indication  of  any  sentiment  less  general  than  the  friendship 
of  society  might  appear.  Though  she  was  invariably  kind,  yet  his  feel- 
ings told  him  that  she  was  changed,  without  his  being^able  to  discover 
where  the  alteration  lay  ;  the  line  of  demarcation,  which  she  took  care 
never  to  pass,  was  too  finely  traced,  for  any  but  feminine  tact  to  discern, 
though  it  obstructed  him  as  if  it  had  been  as  h  gh  and  massive  as  a  city 
wall.  Now  and  then  his  speaking  eye  rested  on  her  with  a  pleading 
glance,  while  she  answered  his  look  with  a  frank  smile,  that  spoke  a  heart 
at  ease,  and  perfect  self-possession.  Indeed,  while  they  remained  near 
each  other,  in  despite  of  all  her  self-denying  resolves,  Cornelia  was  happy. 
She  felt  that  there  was  one  being  in  the  world  who  took  a  deep  and  present 
interest  in  her,  whose  thoughts  hovered  round  her,  and  whose  mind  she 
could  influence  „to  the  conception  of  any  act  or  feeling  she  might  desire. 
That  tranquillity  yet  animation  of  spirit  —  that  gratitude  on  closing  her 
eyes  at  night  —  that  glad  anticipation  of  the  morrow's  sun  —  that  absence 
of  every  harsh  and  jarring  emotion,  which  is  the  disposition  of  the  human 
soul  the  nearest  that  we  can  conceive  to  perfect  happiness,  and  which  now 
and  then  visits  sad  humanity,  to  teach  us  of  what  unmeasured  and  pure  joy 
our  fragile  nature  is  capable,  attended  her  existence,  and  made  each  hour 
of  the  day  a  new-born  blessing. 

This  state  of  things  could  not  last.  An  accident  revealed  to  Saville  thi  \ 
32—8 


00  LODORE. 

true  state  of  his  heart ;  he  became  aware  that  he  loved  Cornelia,  deeply 
and  fervently,  and  from  that  moment  he  resolved  to  exile  himself  for  ever 
from  her  dear  presence.  Misery  is  the  child  of  love  when  happiness  is 
not ;  this  Horatio  felt,  but  he  did  not  shrink  from  the  endurance.  All  ab- 
stracted and  lofty  as  his  speculations  were,  still  his  place  had  been  in  the 
hot-bed  of  patrician  society,  and  he  was  familiar  with  the  repetition  of  do- 
mestic revolutions,  too  frequent  there.  For  worlds  he  would  not  have  Cor- 
nelia's name  become  a  by- word  and  mark  for  scandal  —  that  name  which 
she  had  so  long  kept  bright  and  unreachable.  His  natural  modesty  pre- 
vented him  from  entertaining  the  idea  that  he  could  indeed  destroy  her 
peace  ;  but  he  knew  how  many  and  easy  are  the  paths  which  lead  to  the 
loss  of  honour  in  the  world  s  eyes.  That  it  could  be  observed  and  surmised 
that  one  man  had  approached  Lady  Lodore  with  any  but  sentiments  of 
reverence,  was  an  evil  to  be  avoided  at  any  cost.  Saville  was  firm  as  rock 
in  his  resolves  —  he  neither  doubted  nor  procrastinated.  He  left  the  neigh 
bourhood  where  she  resided,  and,  returning  to  his  father's  house,  tried  to 
acquire  strength  to  bear  the  severe  pain  which  he  could  not  master. 

His  gentle  and  generous  nature,  ever  thoughtful  for  others,  and  prodigal 
of  self,  was  not  however  satisfied  with  this  mere  negative  act  of  justice 
towards  one  who  honoured  him  he  felt  conscious,  with  her  friendship  and 
kindest  thoughts.  He  was  miserable  in  the  idea  thr  t  he  could  not  farther 
serve  her.  He  revolved  a  thousand  plans  in  his  mind,  tending  to  her  ad- 
vantage. In  fancy  he  entered  the  solitude  of  her  meditations,  and  tried  to 
divine  what  her  sorrows  or  desires  were,  that  he  might  minister  to  their 
solace  or  accomplishment.  Their  previous  intercourse  had  been  very  un- 
reserved, and  though  Cornelia  spoke  but  distantly  and  coldly  of  Lodore, 
she  frequently  mentioned  her  child,  and  lamented,  with  much  emotion,  the 
deprivation  of  all  those  joys  which  maternal  love  bestows.  Often  had  Sa- 
ville said,  "  Why  not  appeal  more  strongly  to  Lord  Lodore  ?  or,  if  he  be 
inflexible,  why  calmly  endure  an  outrage  shocking  to  humanity  ?  The 
laws  of  your  country  may  assist  you." 

"They  would  not,"  said  Cornelia;  "for  his  reply  would  be  so  fraught 
with  seeming  justice,  that  the  blame  would  fall  back  on  me.  He  asks  but 
the  trivial  sacrifice  of  my  duty  to  my  mother  —  my  poor  mother  !  who,  since 

1  was  born,  has  lived  with  me  and  for  me,  and  who  has  no  existence  except 
through  me.  I  am  to  tear  away,  and  to  trample  upon  the  first  of  human 
ties,  to  render  myself  worthy  of  the  guardianship  of  my  child  i  I  cannot 
do  it  —  I  should  hold  myself  a  parricide.  Do  not  let  us  talk  more  of  these 
things  ;  endurance  is  the  fate  of  woman,  and  if  I  have  more  than  my  share, 
let  us  hope  that  some  other  poor  creature,  less  able  tc  bear,  has  her  portion 
lightened  in  consequence.  I  should  be  glad  if  once  indeed  I  were  permitted 
to  see  my  cherub  girl,  though  it  were  only  while  she  slept ;  but  an  ocean 
rolls  between  us,  and  patience  must  be  my  comforter." 

The  soft  sweetness  of  hei  look  and  voice,  the  angelic  grace  that  animated 
every  tone  and  glance,  rendered  these  maternal  complaints  mournful,  yet 
enchanting  music  to  the  ear  of  Saville.  He  could  have  listened  for  ever. 
But  when  exiled  from  her,  they  assumed  another  form.  He  began  to  think 
whether  it  were  not  possible  to  convince  Lord  Lodore  of  the  inexcusable 
cruelty  of  his  conduct ;  and  again  and  again,  he  imaged  the  exultation  of 
heart  he  should  feel,  if  he  could  succeed  in  placing  her  lost  babe  in  the 
mother's  arms. 

Saville  was  the  frankest  of  human  beings.  Finding  his  cousin  Edward 
on  a  visit  at  Maristow  castle,  he  imparted  his  project  to  him  of  making  j. 
voyage  to  America,  seeking  out  Lord  Lodore,  and  using  every  argument 
and  persuasion  to  induce  him  to  restore  her  daughter  to  his  wife.  Villiers 
was  startled  at  the  mention  of  this  chivalrous  intent.  What  could  have 
roused  the  studious  Horace  to  such  sudden  energy  ?     By  one  of  thoso 


LODORE.  87 

strange  caprices  of  the  human  mind,  which  bring  forth  discord  instead  of 
harmony,  Edward  had  never  liked  Lady  Lodore  —  he  held  her  to  be  false 
and  dangerous.  Circumstances  had. brought  him  more  in  contact  with  her 
mother  than  herself,  and  the  two  were  associated  and  confounded  in  his 
mind,  till  he  heard  Lady  Santerre's  falsetto  voice  in  the  sweet  one  of 
Cornelia,  and  saw  her  deceitful  vulgar  devices  in  the  engaging  manners  of 
her  daughter.  He  was  struck  with  horror  when  he  discovered  that  Saville 
loved,  nay,  idolized  this  beauteous  piece  of  mischief,  as  he  would  have 
named  her.  He  saw  madness  and  folly  in  his  duixotic  expedition,  and 
argued  against  it  with  all  his  might.  It  would  not  do  ;  Horatio  was  resolved 
to  dedicate  himself  to  the  happiness  of  her  he  loved  ;  and  since  this  must 
be  done  in  absence  and  distance,  what  better  plan  than  to  restore  to  her 
the  precious  treasure  of  which  she  had  been  robbed  ? 

Saville  resolved  to  cross  the  Atlantic,  and,  though  opposed  to  his  scheme, 
Villiers  offered  to  accompany  him.  A  voyage  to  America  was  but  a  trip 
to  an  active  and  unoccupied  young  man  ;  the  society  of  his  cousin  would 
render  the  journey  delightful ;  he  preferred  it  at  all  times  to  the  commoner 
pleasures  of  life,  and  besides,  on  this  occasion,  he  was  animated  with  the 
hope  of  being  useful  to  him.  There  was  nothing  effeminate  in  Saville. 
His  energy  of  purpose  and  depth  of  thought  forbade  the  idea.  Still  there 
was  something  that  appeared  to  require  kindness  and  support.  His  delicate 
health,  of  which  he  took  no  care,  demanded  feminine  attentions  ;  his  careless 
reliance  upon  the  uprightness  of  others,  and  total  self-oblivion,  often  hurried 
him  to  the  brink  of  dangers  ;  and  though  fearlessness  and  integrity  were 
at  hand  to  extricate  him,  Edward,  who  knew  his  keen  sensibility  and 
repressed  quickness  of  temper,  was  not  without  fear  that  on  so  delicate  a 
mission  his  ardent  feelings  might  carry  him  beyond  the  mark,  and  that,  in 
endeavouring  to  serve  a  woman  whom  he  loved  with  enthusiastic  adoration, 
he  might  rouse  the  angry  passions  of  her  husband. 

With  such  feelings  the  cousins  crossed  the  Atlantic  and  arrived  at  New- 
York.  Thence  they  proceeded  to  the  west  of  America,  and  passing  Lodore 
and  his  daughter  on  the  road  without  knowing  it,  arrived  at  the  Illinois 
after  their  departure.  They  were  astonished  to  find  that  Mr.  Fitzhenry, 
as  he  was  named  to  them,  had  broken  up  his  establishment,  sold  his  farm, 
and  departed  with  the  intention  of  returning  to  Europe.  What  this  change 
might  portend  they  could  not  guess.  Whether  it  were  the  result  of  any 
communication  with  Lady  Lodore  —  whether  a  reconciliation  was  under 
discussion,  or  whether  it  were  occasioned  by  caprice  merely,  they  could  not 
tell ;  at  any  rate,  it  seemed  to  put  an  end  to  Savilie's  mediation.  If  Lodore 
returned  to  England,  it  was  probable  that  Cornelia  would  herself  make  an 
exertion  to  have  her  child  restored  to  her.  Whether  he  could  be  of  any  use 
was  problematical,  but  untimely  interference  \yas  to  be  deprecated  ;  events 
must  be  left  to  take  their  own  course.  Savil^vvas  scarcely  himself  aware 
how  glad  he  was  to  escape  any  kind  of  intercourse  with  the  husband  of 
Cornelia. 

This  feeling,  however  unacknowledged,  became  paramount  with  him. 
Now  that  Lodore  was  about  to  leave  America,  he  wished  to  linger  in  it ; 
he  planned  a  long  tour  through  the  various  states,  he  studied  their  laws 
an  I  customs,  he  endeavoured  to  form  a  just  estimate  of  the  institutions  of 
the  New  World,  and  their  influence  on  those  governed  by  them. 

Edward  had  little  sympathy  in  these  pursuits  ;  he  was  ea^er  to  return  to 
London,  and  felt  more  inclined  to  take  his  gun  and  shoot  in  the  forests,  than 
to  mingle  in  the  society  of  the  various  towns.  This  difference  of  taste  caused 
the  cousins  at  various  times  to  separate.  Saville  was  at  Washington  when 
Villiers  made  a  journey  to  the  borders  of  Canada,  to  the  falls  of  the  Niagara, 
and  returned  by  New- York ;  a  portion  of  the  United  States  which  his  cousin 
avoided  visiting  until  Lodore  should  have  quitted  it. 


88  LODORE, 

Thus  it  was  that  a  strange  combination  of  circumstances  brought  Villiers 
into  contact  with  this  unfortunate  nobleman,  and  made  him  a  witness  of 
and  a  participator  in  the  closing  scene  of  his  disastrous  and  wasted  life. 
Villiers  did  not  sympathize  in  his  cousin's  admiration  of  Cornelia,  and  was 
easily  won  to  take  a  deep  interest  in  the  foitunes  of  her  husband.  The 
very  aspect  of  Lodore  commanded  attention  ;  his  voice  entered  the  soul : 
ill-starred,  and  struck  by  calamity  he  rose  majestically  from  the  ruin  around 
him,  and  seemed  to  defy  fate.  The  first  thought  that  struck  Villiers  was, 
how  could  Lady  Lodore  desert  such  a  man ;  how  pitifully  degraded  must 
she  be,  who  preferred  the  throng  of  fools  to  the  society  of  so  matchless  a 
being  !  The  gallantry  with  which  he  rushed  to  his  fate,  his  exultation  in 
the  prospect  of  redeeming  his  honour,  his  melting  tenderness  towards  his 
daughter,  filled  Villiers  with  respect  and  compassion.  It  was  all  over  now. 
Lodore  was  dead  :  his  passions,  his  wrongs,  his  errors,  slept  with  him  in 
the  grave.  He  had  departed  from  the  busy  stage,  never  to  be  forgotten  — 
yet  to  be  seen  no  more. 

Lodore  was  dead,  and  Cornelia  was  free.  Her  husband  had  alluded  to 
the  gladness  with  which  she  would  welcome  liberty ;  and  Villiers  knew 
that  there  was  another,  also,  whose  heart  would  rejoice,  and  open  itself  ai 
once  to  the  charming  visitation  of  permitted  love.  V  lihers  sighed  to  think 
that  Saville  would  marry  the  beautiful  widow  ;  but  he  did  not  doubt  that 
this  event  would  take  place. 

Having  seen  that  Ethel  was  in  kind  hands,  and  learned  the  satisfactory 
arrangements  made  for  her  return  to  England,  be  hastened  to  join  his 
cousin,  and  to  convey  the  astounding  intelligence.  Saville's  generous  dis- 
position prevented  exultation,  and  subdued  joy.  Still  the  prospect  of  future 
happiness  became  familiar  to  him,  shadowed  only  by  the  fear  of  not  obtain- 
ing the  affections  of  her  he  so  fervently  love3..  For,  strange  to  say,  Saville 
was  diffident  to  a  fault :  he  could  not  imagine  any  qualities  in  himself  to 
attract,  a  beautiful  and  fashionable  woman.  His  hopes  were  slight ;  his 
thoughts  timid :  the  pain  of  eternal  division  was  replaced  by  the  gentler 
anxieties  of  love ;  and  he  returned  to  England,  scarcely  daring  to  expect 
that  crown  to  his  desires,  which  seemed  too  high  an  honour,  too  dear  a 
blessing,  for  earthly  love  to  merit. 


CHAPTER  X3SI. 

Ma  la  fede  degli  Amanti 
Ejpome  l'Araba  fenice; 
Che  vi  sia,  ciaschun'  1c  dice, 
Ma  dove  sia,  nessun  to  sa. 

Metastasio. 

Meanwhile  Lady  Lodore  had  been  enduring  the  worst  miseries  of  ill- 
fated  love.  The  illness  of  Lady  Santerre,  preceding  her  death,  had  de- 
manded all  her,  time  ;  and  she  nursed  her  with  exemplary  patience  and 
kindness.  During  her  midnight  watchings  and  solitary  days,  she  had  full 
time  to  feel  how  deep  a  wound  her  heart  had  received.  The  figure  and 
countenance  of  her  absent  friend  haunted  her  in  spite  of  every  effort ;  and 
when  death  hovered  over  the  pillow  of  her  mother,  she  clung,  with  mad 
desperation,  to  the  thought,  that  there  was  still  one,  when  this  parent  should 
be  gone,  to  love  her,  even  though  she  never  saw  him  more. 

Lady  Santerre  died.  After  the  first  burst  of  natural  grief,  Cornelia  began 
to  reflect  that  Lord  Lodore  might  now  imagine  that  every  obstacle  to  their 
reconciliation  was  removed.    She  had  looked  upon  her  husband  as  hei 


LODORE.  89 

enemy  and  injurer ;  sne  had  regarded  him  with  indignation  and  fear ; 

but  now  she  hated  him.  Strong  aversion  had  sprung  up,  during  the 
struggles  of  passion,  in  her  bosom.  She  hated  him  as  the  eternal  barrier 
between  her  and  one  who  loved  her  with  rare  disinterestedness.  The 
human  heart  must  desire  happiness  ;  — in  spite  of  every  effort  at  resigna- 
tion, it  must  aspire  to  the  fulfilment  of  its  wish.  Lord  Lodore  was  the 
cause  why  she  was  cut  off  from  it  for  ever.  He  had  foreseen  that  this 
feeh.i?,  'his  combat,  this  misery,  would  be  her  doom,  in  tne  deserted  situa- 
tion she  chose  for  herself:  she  had  laughed  his  fears  to  scorn,  Now  she 
abhorred  mm  the  more  for  having  divined  her  destiny.  While  she  banished 
the  pleasant  thoughts  of  love,  she  indulged  in  the  poisoned  ones  of  hate ; 
and  wh'.le  she  resisted  each  softer  emotion  as  a  crime,  she  opened  her  heart 
to  the  bitterest  resentment,  as  a  permitted  solace  ;  nor  was  she  aware  that 
thus  <ne  redoubled  all  her  w  ?es.  It  was  under  the  influence  of  these  feel- 
ings, that  she  had  written  to  Mrs.  Elizabet'  Fitzhenry  that  harsh,  decided 
letter,  which  Lodore  received  at  New- York.  The  intelligence  of  his  vio- 
lent death  came  as  an  answer  to  her  expressions  of  implacable  resentment. 
A  pang  of  remorse  stung  her,  when  she  thought  how  she  had  emptied  the 
vials  of  her  wrath  on  a  head  which  had  so  soon  after  been  laid  low  for  ever. 

The  double  loss  of  husband  and  mother  caused  Lady  Lodore  to  seclude 
herself,  not  in  absolute  solitude,  but  in  the  agreeable  retreat  of  friendly 
society.  She  was  residing  near  Brighton,  when  Saville  returned  from 
America,  and,  with  a  heart  beating  high  with  its  own  desires,  again  beheld 
the  mistress  of  his  affections.  His  delicate  nature  caused  him  to  respect 
the  weeds  she  wore,  even  though  they  might  be  termed  a  mockery :  they 
were  the  type  of  her  freedom  and  his  hopes ;  yet,  as  the  tokens  of  death? 
they  were  to  be  respected.  He  saw  her  more  beautiful  than  ever,  more 
courted,  more  waited  on  ;  and  he  half  despaired.  How  could  he,  the  ab- 
stracted student,  the  man  of  dreams,  the  sensitive  and  timid  invalid,  insnare 
the  foncy  of  one  formed  to  adorn  the  circles  of  wealth  and  fashion? 

Thus  it  was  that  Saville  and  Cornelia  were  farther  off  than  ever,  when 
they  imagined  themselves  most  near.  Neither  of  them  could  afterwards 
comprehend  what  dividea  them  ;  or  why,  when  each  would  have  died  for 
the  other's  sake,  cobweb  barriers  should  have  proved  inextricable  ;  and 
wherefore,  after  weathering  every  more  stormy  peril,  they  should  perish  be- 
neath the  influence  of  a  summer  breeze. 

The  pride  of  Cornelia's  heart,  hid  by  the  artificial  courtesies  of  society, 
was  a  sentim?nt  resolved,  confirmed,  active,  and  far  beyond  her  own  con- 
trol. The  smallest  opposition  appeared  rebellion  to  her  majesty  of  will ; 
while  her  own  caprices,  her  own  desires,  were  sacred  decrees.  She  was 
too  haughty  to  admit  of  discussion  —  too  firmly  intrenched  in  a  sense  of 
what  was  due  to  her,  not  to  start  indignantly  from  remonstrance.  It  is  true^ 
all  this  was  but  a  painted  veil.  She  was  tremblingly  alive  to  censure,  and 
wholly  devoted  to  the  object  of  her  attachment ;  but  Saville  was  unable  to 
understand  these  contradictions.  His  modesty  led  him  to  believe,  that  he, 
of  all  men,  was  least  calculated  to  excite  love  in  a  woman's  bosom.  He 
saw  in  Cornelia  a  beautiful  creation,  to  admire  and  adore  5  but  he  was  slow 
to  perceive  the  tenderness  of  soul,  which  her  disposition  made  her  anxious 
to  conceal,  and  he  was  conscious  of  no  qualities  in  himself  that  could  entitle 
him  to  a  place  in  her  affections.  Except  that  he  loved  her,  what  merit  had 
he  ?  And  the  interests  of  his  affection  he  was  willing  to  sacrifice  at  the  altar 
of  her  wishes,  though  his  life  should  be  the  oblation  necessary  to  ensure 
their  accomplishment. 

This  is  not  the  description  of  true  love  on  either  side ;  for,  to  be  perfect, 

that  sentiment  ought  to  exist  through  the  entireness  of  mutual  sympathy 

and  trust :  but  not  the  less  did  their  passionate  attachment  engross  the 

minds  of  both.     All  might  have  been  well,  indeed,  had  the  lovers  been  left 

S* 

m 


90  LODORE. 

to  themselves  ;  but  friends  and  relations  interfered  to  mar  and  to  destroy. 
The  sisters  of  Saville  accused  Lady  Lodore  of  encouraging,  and  intend- 
ing to  marry,  the  Marquess  of  C .     Saville  instantly  resolved  to  be  no 

obstacle  in  the  way  of  her  ambition.  Cornelia  was  tired  with  treble  indi g- 
nation  to  perceive  that  he  at  once  conceded  the  place  to  his  rival.  One 
word  or  look  of  gentleness  would  have  changed  this  ;  but  she  resolved  to 
vanquish  by  other  arms,  and  to  force  him  to  show  some  outwaid  sign  of  jeal- 
ousy and  resentment.  Saville  had  a  natural  dignity  of  mind,  founded  on 
simplicity  of  heart  and  directness  of  purpose.  Cornelia  knew  that  he  loved 
her;  —  on  that  his  claim  rested  ;  all  that  might  be  done  to  embellish  and 
elevate  her  existence,  he  would  study  to  achieve;  but  he  could  not  enter 
into,  nor  understand,  the  puerile  fancies  of  a  spoiled  beauty  :  and  while  she 
was  exerting  all  her  powers,  and  succeeded  in  fascinating  a  crowd  of  flat- 
terers, she  saw  Saville  apart,  abstracted  from  such  vanities,  pursuing  a 
silefit  course  ;  ready  to  approach  her  when,  her  attention  was  disengaged, 
but  at  no  time  making  one  among  her  ostentatious  admirers. 

There  was  no  moment  of  her  life  in  which  Cornelia  did  not  fully  appre- 
ciate her  lover's  value,  and  her  own  good  fortune  in  having  inspired  him 
with  a  serious  and  faithful  attachment.  But  she  imagined  that  this  must 
be  known  and  acknowledged  ;  and  that  to  ask  any  demonstration  of  grati- 
tude, was  ungenerous  and  tyrannical.  An  untaught  girl  could  not  have 
acted  with  more  levity  and  wilfulness.  It  was  worse  when  she  found  that 
she  was  accused  of  encouraging  a  wealthier  and  more  illustrious  rival.  She 
disdained  to  exculpate  herself  from  the  charge  of  such  low  ambition,  but 
rather  furnished  new  grounds  for  accusation  ;  and,  in  the  arrogance  of  con- 
scious power,  smiled  at  the  pettiness  of  the  attempts  made  to  destroy  her 
influence.  Proud  in  the  belief  that  she  could  in  an  instant  dispel  the  clcuds 
she  had  conjured  athwart  her  heaven,  she  cared  not  how  ominously  the 
thunder  muttered,  nor  how  dark  and  portentous  lowered  the  threatening 
storm.  It  came  when  she  least  expected  it :  convinced  of  the  fallacy  of  his 
confidence,  made  miserable  by  her  caprices,  agonized  by  the  idea  that  he 
only  lingered  to  add  another  trophy  to  his  rival's  triumph,  Saville,  who  was 
always  impetuous  and  precipitate,  suddenly  quittad  England. 

This  was  a  severe  blow  at  first ;  but  soon  Cornelia  smiled  at  it.  He 
would  return  —  he  must.  The  sincerity  of  their  mutual  preference  wTould 
overcome  the  petty  obstacles  of  time  and  distance.  She  never  felt  more 
sure  of  his  devotion  than  now ;  and  she  looked  so  happy,  and  spoke  so  gayly, 
that  those  who  were  more  ready  to  discern  indifference,  than  love,  in  her 
sentiments,  assured  the  absent  Saville,  that  Lady  Lodore  rejoiced  at  his 
absence,  as  having  shaken  off  a  burden,  and  got  rid  of  an  impediment, 
which,  in  spite  of  herself,  was  a  clog  to. her  brilliant  career.  The  trusting 
love  that  painted  her  face  in  smiles  was  a  traitor  to  itself,  and  while  she  rose 
each  day  in  the  belief  that  the  one  was  near  at  hand  which  would  bring  her 
lover  before  her,  dearer  and  more  attached  than  ever,  she  was  in  reality  at 
work  in  defacing  the  whole  web  of  life,  and  substituting  dark,  blank,  and 
sad  disappointment,  for  the  images  of  light  and  joy  with  which  her  fancy 
painted  it. 

Saville  had  been  gone  five  months.  It  was  strange  that  he  did  not  return  ; 
and  she  began  to  ponder  upon  how  she  must,  unbend,  and  what  demonstra- 
tion she  must  make,  to  attract  him  again  to  her  side.     The  Marquess  of 

G was  dismissed  ;  and  she  visited  the  daughters  of  Lord  Maristow,  to 

learn  what  latest  news  they  had  received  of  their  brother.     "Do  you  know, 
Lady  Lodore,"  said  Sophia  Saville,  "  that  this  is  Horatio's  wedding-day  ? 
t  is  too  true :  we  regret  it,  because  he  weds  a  foreigner  —  but  there  is  no 
help  now.     He  is  married." 

Had  sudden  disease  seized  on  the  framework  of  her  body,  and  dissolved 
and  scattered  with  poisonous  influence  and  unutterable  pains,  the  atoms 


LODORE.  91 

that  compose  it,  Lady  Lodore  would  have  been  less  agonized,  less  terrified. 
A  thousand  daggers  were  at  once  planted  in  her  bosom.  Saville  was  false  ! 
married  !  divided  from  her  for  ever  !  She  was  stunned  :  —  scarcely  under- 
standing the  meaning  of  the  phrases  addressed  to  her,  and,  unabled  to 
conceal  her  perturbation,  she  replied  at  random,  and  hastened  to  shorten 
her  visit. 

But  no  interval  of  doubt  or  hope  was  afforded.  The  words  she  had  heard 
were  concise,  true  to  their  meaning  and  all-sufficing.  Her  heart  died  within 
her.  What  had  she  done?  Was  she  the  cause  ?  She  longed  to  learn  all 
the  circumstances  that  led  to  this  hasty  marriage,  and  whether  inconstancy 
or  resentment  had  impelled  him  to  the  fatal  act.  Yet  wherefore  ask  these 
things?  It  was  over;  the  scene  was  closed.  It  were  little  worth  to  ana- 
lyze the  poison  she  had  imbibed,  since  she  was  past  all  mortal  cure. 

Her  first  resolve  was  to  forget  —  never,  never  to  think  of  the  false  one 
more.  But  her  thoughts  never  wandered  from  his  image,  and  she  was 
eternally  busied  in  retrospection  and  conjecture.  She  was  tempted  at  one 
time  to  disbelieve  the  intelligence,  and  to  consider  it  as  a  piece  of  malice  on 
the  part  of  Miss  Saville;  then  the  common  newspaper  told  her,  that  at  the 
-ambassador's  house  at  Naples,  the  Honourable  Horatio  Saville  had  mar- 
ried Clorinda,  daughter  of  the  Principe  Villamarina,  a  Neapolitan  nobleman 
of  the  highest  rank. 

It  was  true  therefore  —  and  how  was  it  true  ?  Did  he  love  his  bride  ? 
why  else  marry?  — had  he  forgotten  his  tenderness  towards  her?  Alas  ! 
it  needed  not  forgetting;  it  was  a  portion  of  past  time,  fleeting  as  time  it- 
se  f ;  it  had  been  borne  away  with  the  hours  as  they  passed,  and  remem- 
bered as  a  thing  which  had  been,  and  was  no  more.  The  reveries  of  love 
which  for  months  hau  tormed  all  her  occupation,  were  a  blank ;  or  rather 
to  be  replaced  by  the  agonies  of  despair.  Her  native  haughtiness  forsook 
her.  She  was  alone  and  desolate  —  hedged  in  on  all  sides  by  insuperable 
barriers,  whi'-h  shut  out  every  glimpse  of  hope.  She  was  buuiDled  in  her 
own  eyes,  through  her  want  of  success,  and  heartily  despised  herself,  and 
all  her  caprices  and  vanities,  which  had  led  her  to  this  desert,  and  then  left 
her  to  pine.  She  detested  her  position  in  society,  her  mechanism  of  being, 
and  every  circumstance,  self-inherent,  or  adventitious,  that  attended  her 
existence.  All  seemed  to  her  sick  fancy  so  constructed  as  to  ensure  dis- 
grace, desertion,  and  Contempt  She  lay  down  each  night,  feeling  as  if  she 
could  never  endure  to  raise  her  head  on  the  morrow. 

The  unkindness  and  cruelty  of  her  lover's  conduct  next  presented  them- 
selves to  her  contemplation.  She  had  suffered  much  during  the  past  years, 
more  than  she  had  ever  acknowledged,  even  to  herself;  she  had  suffered 
of  regret  and  sorrow,  while  she  brooded  over  her  solitary  position,  and  the 
privation  of  every  object  on  whom  she  might  bestow  affection.  She  had 
had  nothing  to  hope.  Saville  had  changed  all  this  ;  he  had  banished  her 
cares,  and  implanted  hope  in  her  heart.  Now  again  his  voice  recalled  the 
evils,  his  hand  crushed  the  new-born  expectation  of  happiness.  He  was 
the  cause  of  every  ill ;  and  the  adversity  which  she  had  endured  proudly 
and  with  fortitude  while  it  seemed  the  work  of  fate,  grew  more  bitter  and 
heavy  when  she  felt  that  it  arose  through  the  agency  of  one,  whose'' kind 
affection  and  guardianship  she  had  fondly  believed  would  hereafter  prove  a 
blessing  sent  as  from  Heaven  itself,  to  be  the  star  of  her  life. 

This  fit  passed  off;  with  struggles  and  relapses  she  wore  down  the  first 
gush  of  sorrow,  and  her  disposition  again  assumed  force  over  her.  She  had 
found  it  difficult  to  persuade  herself,  in  spite  of  facts,  that  she  was  not 
loved  ;  but  it  was  easy,  once  convinced  of  the  infidelity  of  her  lover,  to  re- 
gard him  with  indifference.  She  now  regretted  lost  happiness  —  but  Saville 
was  no  longer  regretted.  She  wept  over  the  vanished  forms  of  delight, 
lately  so  dear  to  her ;  but  she  remembered  that  he  who  had  called  them 


92  LODORE. 

into  life  had  driven  them  away  ;  and  she  smiled  in  proud  scorn  of  his  fleet- 
ing and  unworthy  passion.  It  was  not  to  this  love  that  she  had  made  so 
tender  and  lavish  a  return.  She  had  loved  his  constancy,  his  devotion,  his 
generous  solicitude  for  her  welfare  —  for  the  happiness  which  she  bestowed 
on  him,  and  for  the  sympathy  that  so  clearly  united  them.  These  were 
fled  ;  and  it  were  vai'i  to  consecrate  herself  to  an  empty  and  deformed 
mockery  of  so  beautiful  a  truth. 

Then  she  tried  to  hate  him  —  to  despise  and  to  lessen  him  in  her  own 
estima^n.  The  atten^t  recoiled  on  herself.  The  recollection  of  his  worth 
stole  across  her  memory,  to  frustrate  her  vain  endeavours  :  1.  d  voice  haunted 
—  his  expressive  eyes  beamed  on  her.  It  were  better  t^>  forget.  Indifference 
was  her  only  refuge,  and  to  attain  this  she  must  wholly  banish  his  image 
from  her  mind.  Cornelia  was  possessed  of  wonderful  firmness  of  purpose. 
It  had  carried  her  on  so  long  unharmed,  and  now  that  danger  was  at  hand 
it  served  effectually  to  defend  her.  She  rose  calm  and  free,  above  unmer- 
ited disaster.  She  grew  proud  of  the  power  she  found  that  she  possessed 
of  conquering  the  most  tyrannical  of  passions.  Peace  entered  her  soul, 
and  she  hailed  it  as  a  blessing. 

The  clause  in  her  husband's  will  which  deprived  her  of  the  guardian- 
ship of  her  daughter  bad  been  forgotten  during  this  crisis.  Before,  under 
the  supposition  that  she  should  marry,  she  had  deterred  taking  any  step  to 
claim  her.  The  idea  of  a  struggle  to  be  made,  unassisted,  unadvised,  and 
unshielded,  was  terrible.  She  had  not  courage  to  encounter  all  the  annoy- 
ances that  might  ensue.  To  get  rid  for  a  time  of  the  necessity  of  action 
and  reflection,  she  went  abroad.  She  changed  the  scene  —  she  travelled 
from  place  to  place.  She  gave  herself  up  in  the  solitude  of  continental 
journics  to  the  whole  force  of  contending  passions  ;  now  overcome  by  des- 
pair, and  again  repressing  regret,  asserting  to  herself  the  lofty  pride  of  her 
nature. 

By  degrees  she  recovered  a  healthier  tone  of  mind  —  a  distant  and  faint, 
yet  genuine  sense  of  duty  dawned  upon  her ;  and  she  began  to  think  on 
what  her  future  existence  was  to  depend,  and  how  she  could  best  secure 
some  portion  of  happiness.  Her  heart  once  again  warmed  towards  the 
image  of  her  daughter  —  and  she  felt  that  in  watching  the  development  of 
her  mind,  and  leading  her  to  love  and  depend  on  her,  a  new  interest  and 
real  pleasure  might  spring  up  in  life.  She  reproached  herself  for  having  so 
long,  by  silence  and  passive  submission,  given  scope  to  the  belief  that  she 
was  willing  to  be  a  party  against  herself,  in  the  injustice  of  Lodore  ;  and 
she  returned  to  England  with  the  intention  of  instantly  enforcing  her  rights 
over  her  child,  and  taking  to  her  bosom  and  to  her  fondest  care  the  little 
being,  whose  affection  and  gratitude  was  to  paint  her  future  life  with 
smiles. 

She  called  to  mind  Lady  Santerre's  worldly  maxims,  and  her  own  expe- 
rience. She  knew  that  the  first  step  to  success  is  the  appearance  of  pros- 
perity and  power.  To  command  the  good  wishes  and  aid  of  her  friends 
she  must  appear  independent  of  them.  She  was  earnest  therefore  to  hide 
the  wounds  her  heart  had  received,  and  the  real  loathing  with  which  she 
regarded  all  things.  She  arrayed  herself  in  smiles,  and  banished  far  below, 
into  the  invisible  recesses  of  her  bosom,  the  contempt  and  disgust  with 
which  she  viewed  the  scene  around  her. 

She  returned  to  England.  She  appeared  at  the  height  of  the  season,  in 
the  midst  of  society,  as  beautiful,  as  charming,  as  happy  in  look  and  man- 
ner, as  in  her  days  of  light-hearted  enjoyment.  She  paused  yet  a  moment 
longer,  to  reflect  on  what  step  she  had  better  take  on  first  enforcing  her 
claim ;  but  her  mind  was  full  of  its  intention,  and  set  upon  the  fulfill- 
ment. 

At  thi^^me,  but  a  few  days  after  her  arrival  in  London,  she  went  to 


LODORE.  93 

the  opera.  She  heard  the  name  of  Fitzhenry  called  in  the  lobby  —  she  saw 
and  recognised  Mrs.  Elizabeth  — the  venerable  sister  Bessy,  so  little  altered 
that  time  might  be  said  to  have  touched,  but  not  strenched  her  homely 
kindly  face.  With  her,  in  attendance  on  her,  she  beheld  Horatio  Sav die's 
favourite  cousin  —  tne  gay  and  fashionable  Edward  Villiers.  It  was 
strange  ;  her  curiosity  was  strongly  excited.  I  had  not  long  to  languish  : 
the  next  morning  Villiers  called,  and  was  readily  admitted. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

And  as  good  lost  is  seldor  never  found. 

Shakspeare. 

Lady  Lodore  and  Villiers  met  for  the  first  time  since  Horatio  Saville's 
marriage.  Neither  were  exactly  aware  of  what  the  other  knew  or  thought. 
Cornelia  was  ignorant  how  far  her  attachment  to  his  cousin  was  known  to 
him  ;  whether  he  shared  the  general  belief  in  her  worldly  coquetry,  or  what 
part  he  might  have  had  in  occasioning  their  unhappy  separation.  She 
could  not  indeed  see  him  without  emotion.  He  had  been  Lodore's  second, 
and  received  the  last  dying  breath  of  him  who  had,  in  her  brightest  youth, 
selected  her  from  the  world,  to  share  his  fortunes.  Those  days  were  lone 
past ;  yet  as  she  grew  older,  disappointed,  and  devoid  of  pleasurable  inter- 
est in  the  present,  she  often  turned  her  thoughts  backward,  and  wondered 
at  the  part  she  had  acted. 

Similar  feelings  were  in  Edward's  mind.  He  was  prejudiced  againsther 
in  every  way.  He  despised  her  worldly  calculations,  as  reported  to  'urn, 
and  rejoiced  in,their  failure.  He  believed  these  reports,  and  despised  her  ; 
yet  he  could  not  see  her  without  being  moved  at  once  with  admiration  and 
pity.  The  moon-lit  hill,  and  tragic  scene,  in  which  he  had  played  his  part, 
came  vividly  before  his  eyes.  He  had  been  struck  by  the  nobleness  of  Lo- 
dore's appearance  —  the  sensibility  that  sat  on  his  countenance  —  his  gentle, 
yet  dignified  manners.  Ethel's  idolatry  of  her  father  had  confirmed  the  fa- 
vourable prepossession.  He  could  not  help  compassionating  Cornelia  for 
the  loss  of  her  husband,  forgetting,  for  the  moment,  their  separation.  Then 
again  recurred  to  him  the  eloquent  appeals  of  Saville  ;  his  eulogiums  ;  hia 
fervent,  reverential  affection.  She  had  lost  him  also.  Could  she  hold  up 
her  head  after  such  miserable  events  ?  The  evidence  of  the  senses,  and 
the  ideas  of  our  own  minds,  are  more  forcibly  present,  than  any  notion  we 
can  form  of  the  feelings  of  others.  In  spite,  therefore,  of  his  belief  in  her 
hcartlessness,  Villiers  had  pictured  Cornelia  attired  in  dismal  weeds,  the 
victim  of  grief.  He  saw  her,  beaming  in  beauty,  at  the  opera  ;  —  he  now 
beheld  her,  radiant  in  ewee<  smilee,  in  her  own  home.  Nothing  touched  — 
nothing  harmed  her;  and  the  glossy  surface,  he  doubted  not,  imaged  well 
the  insensible,  unimpressive  soul  within. 

Lady  Lodore  would  have  despised  herself  for  ever  had  she  betrayed  the 
tremor  that  shook  her  frame  when  Villiers  entered.  Her  pride  of  sex  was 
in  arms  to  enable  her  to  convince  him,  that  no  regret,  no  pining,  shadowed 
her  days.  The  reality  was  abhorrent,  and  should  never  be  con  essed.  Thus 
they  met  —  each  with  a  whole  epic  of  wo  and  death  alive  in  their  memory ; 
hut  both  wearing  the  outward  appearance  of  frivolity  and  thoughtlessness. 
He  saw  her  as  lovely  as  ever,  and  as  kind.  Her  softest  and  sweetest  wel- 
come was  extended  to  him.  It  was  this  frequent  show  of  frank  cordiality 
which  gained  her  "  golden  opinions  "  from  the  many.  Her  haughtiness  was 
all  of  the  mind ;  —  a  desire  to  please,  and  constant  association  with  others, 


94  LODOfiE. 

had  smoothed  the  surface,  and  painted  it  in  the  colours  most  agreeable  to 
every  eye. 

They  addressed  each  other  as  if  they  had  met  but  the  day  before.  At  first, 
a  few  questions  and  answers  passed, —  as  to  where  she  had  been  on  the 
continent,  how  she  liked  Baden,  &c. ;  — and  then  Lady  Lodore  said  —  "  Al- 
though 1  have  not  seen  her  for  several  years,  I  instantly  recognised  a  rela- 
tive of  mine  with  you  yesterday  evening.  Does  Miss  Fitzhenry  make  any 
stay  in  town  ?" 

The  idea  of  Ethel  was  uppermost  in  Villiers's  mind,  and  struck  by  the 
manner  in  which  the  woman  of  fashion  spoke  of  her  daughter,  he  replied, 
"  During  the  season,  I  believe  ;  1  scarcely  know.  Miss  Fitzhenry  came 
up  for  her  health ;  that  consideration,  1  suppose,  will  regulate  her  move- 
ments." 

"  She  looked  very  well  last  night  —  perhaps  she  intends  to  remain  till 
she  gets  ill,  and  country  air  is  ordered  ?"  observed  Lady  Lodore. 

"  That  were  nothing  new  at  least,"  replied  Villiers,  trying  to  hide  the 
disgust  he  felt  at  her  mode  of  speaking ;  "  the  young  and  blooming  too 
often  protract  their  first  season,  till  the  roses  are  exchanged  for  lilies. 

"If  Miss  Fitzhenry's  roses  still  bloom,"  said  the  lady,  "they  must  be 
perennial  ones ;  they  have  surely  grown  more  fit  for  a  herbal  than  a  vase." 

Villiers  now  perceived  his  mistake,  and  replied,  "  You  are  speaking  of 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry,  as  the  good  lady  stiles  herself —I  spoke  of—  her 


niece  — 


j» 


"  Has  Ethel  been  ill  ?"  Lady  Lodore's  hurried  question,  and  the  use 
of  the  christian  name,  as  most  familiar  to  her  thoughts,  brought  home  to 
Villiers's  heart  the  feeling  of  their  near  relationship.  There  was  something 
more  than  grating  ;  it  was  deeply  painful  to  speak  to  a  mother  of  a  child 
who  had  been  torn  from  her  —  who  did  not  know  —  who  had  even  been 
taut  ht  to  hate  her.  He  wished  himself  a  hundred  miles  off,  but  there  was 
no  help,  he  must  reply.  "  You  might  have  seen  last  night  that  she  is  per- 
fect y  recovered." 

Lady  Lodore's  imagination  refused  to  image  her  child  in  the  tall,  elegant, 
full-formed  girl  she  had  seen,  and  she  said,  "  Was  Ethel  with  you  ?  I  did 
not  sec  her  —  probably  she  went  home  before  the  opera  was  over,  and  I 
only  perceived  your  party  in  the  crush-room  —  you  appear  already  inti- 
mate." 

"  It  is  impossible  to  see  Miss  Fitzhenry  and  not  to  wish  to  be  intimate," 
replied  Villiers  with  his  usual  frankness.  "  I,  at  least,  cannot  help  being 
deeply  interested  in  every  thing  that  relates  to  her." 

"  You  are  very  good  to  take  concern  in  my  little  girl.  I  should  have 
imagined  that  you  were  too  young  yourself  to  like  children." 

"Children  !"  repeated  Villiers,  much  amazed  ;  "  Miss  Fitzhenry  !  —  she 
s  not  a  child." 

Lady  Lodore  scarcely  heard  him  ;  a  sudden  pang  had  shot  across  her 
heart,  to  think  how  strangers  —  how  every  one  might  draw  near  her 
daughter,  and  be  interested  for  her,  while  she  could  not,  without  making 
herself  the  tale  of  the  town,  the  subject,  through  the  medium  of  newspapers, 
for  every  gossip's  tea-table  in  England  —  where  her  sentiments  would  bo 
scanned,  and  her  conduct  criticised  —  and  this  through  the  revengeful  feel 
inys  of  her  husband,  prolonged  beyond  the  grave.  Tears  had  been  gather- 
ing in  her  eyes  during  the  last  moments  ;  she  turned  her  head  to  hide 
them,  and  a  quick  shower  fell  on  her  silken  dress.  €luite  ashamed  of  this 
self-betrayal,  she  exerted  herself  to  overcome  her  emotion.  Villiers  felt 
awkwardly  situated  ;  his  first  impulse  had  been  to  rise  to  take  her  hand, 
to  soothe  her ;  but  before  he  could  do  more  than  the  first  of  these  acts,  as 
Lady  Lodore  fancied  for  the  purpose  of  taking  his  leave,  she  said,  "  It  is 
foolish  to  feel  as  I  do ;  yet  perkap*  more  foolish  to  attempt  to  conceal  from 


LODORE.  95 

Gfle,  as  Well  acquainted  as  you  are  with  every  thing,  that  I  do  feel  pained  at 
the  unnatural  separation  between  me  and  Ethel,  especially  when  1  think 
of  the  publicity  I  must  incur  by  asserting  a  mother's  claims.  I  am  ashamed 
of  intruding  this  subject  on  you  ;  but  she  is  no  longer  the  baby  cherub  I 
Could  "radle  in  my  arms  ;  and  you  have  seen  her  lately,  and  can  tell  me 
whether  she  has  been  Well  brought  up  —  whether  she  seems  tractable  —  if 
she  promises  to  be  pretty  ?" 

"  Did  you  not  think  her  lovely  ?"  cried  Villiers,  with  animation  ;  "  you 
Saw  her  last  night,  taking  my  arm." 

"  Ethel  t"  cried  the^  lady.  "  Could  that  be  Ethel  ?  True,  she  is  now 
sixteen  —  I  had  indeed  forgot"  —  her  cheeks  became  suffused  with  a  deep 
blush  as  she  remembered  all  the  solecisms  she  had  been  committing 
"  She  is  sixteen,"  she  continued,  "  and  a  woman  —  while  1  fancied  a  little 
girl  in  a  white  frock  and  blue  sash :  this  alters  every  thing.  W  e  have  been 
indeed  divided,  and  must  now  remain  so  for  evermore.  I  will  not  injure 
her,  at  her  age,  by  making  her  the  public  talk  —  besides,  many,  many  other 
considerations  would  render  me  fearful  of  making  myself  responsible  for 
her  future  destiny." 

"  At  least,"  said  Villiers,  "  she  ought  to  wait  on  you." 

"  That  were  beyond  Lord  Lodore  s  bond,"  said  the  lady  ;  "  and  why 
should  she  wait  on  me  ?  Were  she  impelled  by  affection,  it  were  well, 
But  ttys  is  talking  very  simply — we  could  only  be  acquaintance,  and  I  would 
rather  be  nothing.  I  confess,  that  I  repined  bitterly,  that  I  was  not  per- 
mitted to  have  my  little  girl,  as  I  termed  her,  for  my  plaything  and  com- 
panion —  but  my  ideas  are  now  changed :  a  dear  little  tractable  child  would 
have  been  delightful  —  hut  she  is  a  woman,  with  a  will  of  her  own  —  pre- 
judiced against  me — brought  up  in  America,  with  all  kinds  of  strange 
notions  and  ways.  Lord  Lodore  was  quite  right,  1  believe  —  he  fashioned 
her  for  himself  and  —  Bessy.  The  worst  thing  that  can  happen  to  a  girl, 
is  to  have  her  prejudices  and  principles  unhinged  ;  no  new  ones  can  flourish 
like  those  that  have  grown  with  her  growth ;  and  mine,  I  fear,  would  differ 
greatly  from  those  in  which  she  has  been  educated.  A  few  years  hence, 
she  may  feel  the  want  of  a  friend,  who  understands  the  world,  and  who 
could  guide  her  prudently  through  its  intricacies  ;  then  she  shall  find  that 
friend  in  me.  Now,  1  feel  convinced  that  I  should  do  more  harm  than 
good." 

A  loud  knock  at  the  street  door  interrupted  the  conversation.  "  One 
thing  only  I  cannot  endure,"  said  the  lady  hastily,  "to  present  a  domestic 
tragedy  or  farce  to  the  Opera  House — we  must  not  meet  in  public.  I 
shall  shut  up  my  house  and  return  to  Paris." 

;  Mere  writtan  words  express  little.  Lady  Lodore's  expressions  were 
nothing  ;  but  her  countenance  denoted  a  change  of  feeling,  a  violence  of 
emotio-i,  of  which  Villiers  hardly  believed  her  capable  ;  but  before  he 
could  reply  the  servant  threw  open  the  door,  and  her  brow  immediately 
clearing,  serenity  descended  on  her  face.  With  her  blandest  smile  she 
extended  her  hand  to  her  new  visiter.  Villiers  was  too  much  discomposed 
to  imitate  her,  so  with  a  silent  salutation  he  departed,  and  cantered  round 
the  park  to  collect  his  thoughts  before  he  called  in  Seymour-street. 

The  ladies  there  were  not  less  agitated  than  Lady  Lodore,  and  displayed 
their  feelings  with  the  artlessness  of  recluses.  The  first  words  that  Mis. 
Elizabeth  had  addressed  to  her  niece,  at  the  breakfast  table,  were  an  awk- 
wardly expressed  intimation,  that  she  meant  instantly  to  return  to  Long- 
field.  Ethel  looked  up  with  a  face  of  alarm  :  her  aunt  continued  ;  "  I  do 
not  want  to  speak  ill  of  Lady  Lodore,  my  dear  —  God  forgive  her  —  that 
is  all  I  can  say.  What  your  dear  father  thought  of  her,  his  last  will  testi- 
fies.    I  suppose  you  do  not  mean  to  disobey  him." 

"His  slightest  word  was  ever  a  law  with  me,"  said  Ethel ;  "and  now 


S6  LODORE, 

that  he  is  gone,  I  would  observe  his  injunctions  more  religiously  than  eves* 
But  —  " 

"  Then,  my  dear,  there  is  but  one  thing  to  be  done  :  Lady  Lodore  will 
assuredly  force  herself  upon  us,  meet  us  at  every  turn,  oblige  you  to  pay 
her  your  duty  ;  nor  could  you  avoid  it.  No,  my  dear  Ethel,  there  is  but 
one  escape  —  your  health,  thank  God.  is  restored,  and  Longfield  is  now  in 
all  its  beauty  ;  we  will  return  to-morrow." 

Ethel  did  not  reply  ;  she  looked  very  disconsolate  —  she  did  not  know 
what  to  say  ;  at  last,  "  Mr.  Villiers  will  think  it  so  odd,"  dropped  from  her 
lips. 

"  Mr.  Villiers  is  nothing  to  us,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt  Bessy  —  "  not  the 
most  distant  relation  ;  he  is  an  agreeable,  good-hearted  young  gentleman 

—  but  there  are  so  many  in  the  world." 

Ethel  left  her  breakfast  untasted,  and  went  out  of  the  room  :  she  felt  that 
she  could  no  longer  restrain  her  tears.  "My  father!"  she  exclaimed, 
while  a  passionate  burst  of  weeping  choked  her  utterance,  "  my  only  friend  ! 
why,  why  did  you  leave  me?  Why,  most  cruel,  desert  your  poor  orphan 
child  ?     Gracious  God  !  to  what  am  I  reserved  !     I  must  not  see  my  mother 

—  a  name  so  dear,  so  sweet,  is  for  me  a  curse  and  a  misery  '     O  my  father, 
why  did  you  desert  me  !" 

Her  calm  reflections  were  not  less  bitter;  she  did  not  suffer  her  thoughts 
to  wander  to  Villiers,  or  rather  the  loss  of  her  father  was  still  so  much  the 
first  grief  of  her  heart,  that  on  any  new  sorrow,  it  was  to  this  she  recurred 
with  agony.  The  form  of  her  youthful  mother  also  flitted  before  her  ;  and 
she  asked  herself,  "  Can  she  be  so  wicked  ?"  Lord  Lodore  had  never 
uttered  her  name  ;  it  was  not  until  his  death  had  put  the  fatal  seal  on  all 
things,  that  she  heard  a  garbled  exaggerated  statement  from  her  aunt,  over 
whose  benevolent  features  a  kind  of  sacred  horror  mantled,  whenever  she 
was  mentioned.  The  will  of  Lord  Lodore,  and  the  stern  injunction  it 
contained,  that  the  mother  and  daughter  should  never  meet,  satisfied  Ethel 
of  the  truth  of  all  that  her  aunt  said  ;  so  that  educated  to  obedience  and 
deep  reverence  for  the  only  parent  she  had  ever  known,  she  recoiled  with 
terror  from  transgressing  his  commands,  and  holding  communication  with 
the  cause  of  all  his  ills.  Still  it  was  hard,  and  very,  very  sad  ;  nor  did  she 
cease  from  lamenting  her  fate,  till  Vilhers's  horse  was  heard  in  the  street, 
and  his  knock  at  the  door  ;  then  she  tried  to  compose  herself.  "  He  will 
surely  come  to  us  at  Longfield,"  she  thought ;  "  Longfield  will  be  so  very 
stupid  after  London." 

After  London  !  Poor  Ethel !  she  had  lived  in  London  as  in  a  desert ; 
but  lately  it  had  appeared  to  her  a  city  of  bliss,  and  all  places  else  the 
abode  of  gloom  and  melancholy.  Villiers  was  shocked  at  the  appearance 
of  sorrow  which  shadowed  her  face  ;  and,  for  a  moment,  thought  that  the 
rencounter  with  her  mother  was  the  sole  occasion  of  the  tears,  whose  traces 
he  plainly  discerned.  His  address  was  full  of  sympathetic  kindness;  — 
but  when  she  said,  "We  return  to-morrow  to  Essex — will  you  come  to 
see  us  at  Longfield?"  —  his  soothing  tones  were  exchanged  for  those  of 
surprise  and  vexation. 

"  Longfield  !  —  impossible !     Why  ?" 

"  My  aunt  has  determined  on  it.  She  thinks  me  recovered ;  and  so, 
indeed,  I  am." 

"  But  are  you  to  be  entombed  at  Longfield,  except  when  dying  ?  If  so, 
do,  pray,  be  ill  again  directly !  But  this  must  not  be.  Dear  Mrs.  Fitz- 
henry,"  he  continued,  as  she  came  in,  "  I  will  not  hear  of  your  going  to 
Longfield.  Look ;  the  very  idea  has  already  thrown  Miss  Fitzhenry  into 
a  consumption  ;  —  you  will  kill  her.     Indeed  you  must  not  think  of  it." 

"  We  shall  all  die,  if  we  stay  in  town,"  said  Mrs.  Elizabeth,  with  per- 
plexity at  her  niece's  evident  suffering, 


I/O  DO  RE.  97 

**  Then  why  stay  in  town  ?"  asked  Villiers. 

"  You  just  now  said,  that  we  ought  not  to  return  to  Longfield,"  answered 
the  lady  ;  *  and  I  am  sure  it*  Ethel  is  to  look  so  ill  and  wretched,  1  don't 
know  what  I  am  to  do." 

"  But  there  are  many  places  in  the  world  besides  either  London  or  Long- 
field.  You  were  charmed  with  Richmond  the  other  day:  there  are  plenty 
i»f  housfis  to  be  had  there  ;  norhing  can  be  prettier  or  more  quiet." 

""Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Aunt  Bessy,  "  I  never  thought  of  that,  to 
oe  sure  ;  and  I  have  business  which  makes  our  going  to  Longfield  very 
inconvenient.  I  expect  Mr.  Humphries,  our  solicitor,  next  week  ;  and  I 
have  not  seen  him  yet.  You  really  think,  Mr.  Villiers,  that  we  could  got 
a  house  to  suit  us  at  Richmond  ?" 

"  Let  us  drive  there  to-day,"  said  Villiers ;  "  we  can  dine  at  the  Star  and 
Garter.  You  can  go  in  the  britzska  —  I  on  horseback.  The  days  are 
long  :  we  can  see  every  thing  ;  and  take  your  house  at  once." 

This  plan  sounded  very  romantic  and  wild  to  the  sober  spinster;  but 
Ethel's  face,  lighted  up  with  vivid  pleasure,  said  more  in  its  favour,  than 
what  the  good  lady  called  Prudence  could  allege  against  it.  "  Silly  people 
you  women  are,"  said  Villiers  :  "  yeu  can  do  nothing  by  yourselves  :  and 
are  always  running  against  posts,  unless  guided  by  others.  This  will 
riake  every  thing  easy  —  dispel  every  difficulty."  His  thoughts  recurred 
to  Lady  Lodore,  and  her  intended  journey  to  Paris,  as  he  said  this  :  and 
again  they  flew  to  a  charming  little  villa  on  the  river's  side,  whither  h6 
could  ride  every  day,  and  find  Ethel  among  her  flowers,  alone  and  happy. 

The  excursion  of  this  morning  was  prosperous.  The  day  was  warm,  yet 
f;esh;  and  as  they  quitted  town,  and  got  surrounded  by  fields,  and  hedges, 
tnd  trees,  nature  reassumed  her  rights,  and  awakened  transport  in  Ethel's 
heart.  The  boyish  spirits  of  Villiers  communicated  themselves  to  her  ;  and 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  smiled,  also,  with  the  most  exquisite  complacency.  A  few 
inquiries  conducted  them  to  a  pretty  rural  box,  surrounded  by  a  small  but 
well  laid-out  shrubbery  ;  and  this  they  engaged.  The  dinner  at  the  inn, 
the  twilight  walk  in  its  garden  ;  — the  fair  prospect  of  the  rich  and  culti- 
v  ated  country,  with  its  silvery,  meandering  river  at  their  feet ;  and  the  as- 
pect  of  the  cloudless  heavens,  where  one  or  two  stars  silently  struggled 
ioto  sight  amidst  the  pathless  waste  of  sky,  were  objects  most  beautiful 
to  look  on,  and  prodigal  of  the  sweetest  emotions.  The  wide,  dark  lake, 
tie  endless  forests,  and  distant  mountains,  of  the  Illinois,  were  not  here ; 
fcnt  night  bestowed  that  appearance  of  solitude,  which  habit  rendered  dear 
to  Ethel:  and  imagination  could  transform  wooded  parks  and  well-trimmed 
meadows  into  bowery  seclusions,  sacred  from  the  foot  of  man,  and  fresh 
fields,  untouched  by  his  hand. 

A  few  days  found  Ethel  and  her  aunt  installed  at  their  little  villa,  and 
delighted  to  be  away  from  London.  Education  made  loneliness  congenial 
to  both :  they  might  seek  transient  amusements  in  towns,  or  visit  them  for 
business ;  but  happiness,  the  agreeable  tenor  of  unvaried  daily  life,  was  to 
be  found  in  the  quiet  of  the  country  only  ;  —  and  Richmond  was  the  country 
to  them  ;  for,  cut  off  from  all  habits  of  intercourse  with  their  species,  they 
hid  but  to  find  trees  and  meadows  near  them,  at  once  to  feel  transported, 
from  the  thick  of  human  life,  into  the  most  noiseless  solitude. 

Ethel  was  very  happy.  She  rose  in  the  morning  with  a  glad  and  grate 
ful  heart,  and  gazed  from  her  chamber  window,  watching  the  early  sunbeams 
as  they  crept  over  the  various  parts  of  the  landscape,  visiting  with  light  and 
warmth  each  open  field  or  embowered  nook.  Her  bosom  overflowed  with 
the  kindest  feelings,  and  her  charmed  senses  answered  the  tremulous  beat- 
ing of  her  pure  heart,  bidding  it  enjoy.  How  beautiful  did  earth  appear  to 
her !  There  was  a  delight  and  a  sympathy  in  the  very  action  of  the  shad- 
ows, as  they  pranked  the  sunshinv  ground  with  their  dark  and  fluctuating 
33—1 


98  LO:;0RE. 

forms.  The  leafy  boughs'  of  the  tall  trees  waved  gracefully,  am?  each  minS 
©f  heaven  wafted  a  thousand  sweets.  A  magic  spell  of  beauty  and  bhsa 
held  in  one  bright  chain  the  whole  harmonious"  universe  ;  and  the  soul  of 
the  enchantment  was  love  —  simple,  girlish,  unacknowledged  love  ;  —  the 
love  of  the  young,  feminine  heart,  which  feels  itself  placed,  all  bleakly  and 
dangerously,  in  a  world,  scarce  formed  to  be  its  home,  and  which  plumes 
itself  with  Love  to  fly  to  the  covert  and  natural  shelter  of  another's  pro* 
tectirrg  care* 

Ethel  did  not  know  —  did  not  fancy  —  that  she  was  in  love  ;  nor  did  any 
of  the  throes  of  passion  disturb  the  serenity  of  her  mind.  She  only  felt  thai 
ghe  was  very,  very  happy  ;  and  that  Villiers  was  the  kindest  of  human 
beings.  She  did  not  give  herself  up  to  idleness  and  reverie.  The  first  law 
of  her  education  had  been  to  be  constantly  emp'oyed.  Her  studies  were 
various  :  they,  perhaps-,  d;d  not  sufficiently  tend  to  invigorate  her  under- 
standing, but  they  sufficed  to  prevent  every  incursion  of  ftstlessness,  Mean- 
while, during  each1,  the  thought  of  V'tfhers  strayed  through  her  mind,  like  at 
heavenly  visitant,  to  gild  all  things'- with  sunny  delight.  Sometime,  during 
the  day,  he  was  nearly  sure  to  come ;  or,  at  least,  she  was  certain  of  seeing 
him  on  the  morrow  ;  and  when  he  came  their  boatings  and  their  rides  w^re 

Erolonged;  while  each  moment  added  to  the  strength  of  the  ties  thai  bound* 
er  to  him.  She  relied  on  his  friendship  ;  and  his  society  was  as  necessary 
to-  her  life  as- the  air  she  breathed.  She  so  implicitly  trusted  to  his  truth, 
that  she  was  unaware  that  she  trusted  at  afl  —  never  making  a  doubt  abou£ 
it.  That  chance,  or  time,  should  injure  or  oreak  off  the  tie,  was  a  possibil- 
ity that  never  suggested  itself  to  her  mind.  As  the  silver  Thames  traversed 
in  silence  and  beautv  the  landscape  at  her  feet,  so  did  love  flow  through  her 
soul  in  one  even  and  unruffled  stream  —  the  great  law  and  emperor  of  hes 
thoughts  ;  yet  more  felt  from  its  influence,  than  from  any  direct  exertion  oJ 
its  power.  It  was  the  result  and  the  type  of  her  sensibility,  of  her  constancy, 
of- the  gentle,  yet  lively  sympathy,  it  was  her  nature  to  bestow,  with  guile- 
less confidence.  Those  around  her  mi°;ht  be  ignorant  that  her  soul  was 
imbued  with  it,  because,  being  a  part  of  her  soul,  there  was  small  outward 
demonstration.  None,  indeed,  near  her  thought  any  thing  about  it:  Aunt 
Bessy  was  a  tyro  in  such  matters  ,  and  Villiers  —  he  had  resolved,  when  he 
perceived  love  on  her  side,  to  retreat  for  ever;  till'  then  he  might  enjoy  th« 
cear  delight  that  her  society  afforded  him; 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Alas  f  he  knows 
The  laws  of  Spain  appoint  me  foi  his  heir  ; 
That  all  must  come  to  me  iff  outlive  him, 
Which  sure  I  must  do,  by  the  course  of  nature. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 

Edward  Villiers  was  the  only  child  of  a  man  of  considerable  fortune, 
who  had  early  in  life  become  a  widower.  From  the  period  of  this  event. 
Colonel  Villiers  (for  his  youth  had  been  passed  in  the  army,  where  he  ob- 
tained promotion)  had  led  the  careless  life  of  a  single  man.  His  son's  home 
was  at  Maristow  Castle,  when  sot  at  school ;  and  the  father  seldom  re- 
membered him  except  as  an  encumbrance  ;  for  his  estate  was  strictly  en 
tailed,  so  that  he  could  only  consider  himself  possessed  of  a  life  interest  in  a 
property,  which  would  devolve,  without  restriction,  on  his  more  fortunate 
son. 

Edward  was  brought  up  in  all  the  magnificence  of  his  uaele's  lordly 


LODORE.  99 

abode.  Luxury  and  profusion  were  the  elements  of  th§  air  he  breathed.  To 
be  without  any  desired  object  that  could  be  purchased,  appeared  baseness 
and  lowest  penury.  He,  also,  was  considered  the  favoured  one  of  fortune 
in  the  family  circle.  The  elder  brother  among  the  Savilles  rose  above,  but  the 
younger  fell  infinitely  below,  the  undoubted  heir  of  eight  thousand  a  year  and 
one  of  the  most  delightful  seats  in  England.  He  was  brought  up  to  look  upon 
himself  as  a  rich  man,  and  to  act  as  such  ;  and  meanwhile  until  his  father's 
death,  he  had  nothing  to  depend  on,  except  any  allowance  he  might  make  him. 

Colonel  Viliiers  was  a  man  of  fashion,  addicted  to  all  the  extravagances 
and  even  vices  of  the  times.  He  set  no  bounds  to  his  expenses.  Gambling 
consumed  his  nights,  and  his  days  were  spent  at  horse-races,  or  any  other 
occupation  that  at  once  excited  and  impoverished  him.  His  income  was  as 
a  drop  of  water  in  the  mighty  stream  of  his  expenditure.  Involvement  followed 
involvement,  until  he  had  not  a  shilling  that  he  could  properly  call  his  own. 

Poor  Edward  heard  of  these  things,  but  did  not  mark  them.  He  in- 
dulged in  no  blameworthy  pursuits,  nor  spent  more  than  beseemed  a  man 
in  his  rank  of  life.  The  idea  of  debt  was  familiar  to  him  :  every  one  —  even 
Lord  Maristow  —  was  in  debt,  far  beyond  his  power  of  immediate  payment. 
He  followed  the  universal  example,  and  suffered  no  inconvenience,  while  his 
wants  were  obligingly  supplied  by  the  fashionable  tradesmen.  He  regard- 
ed the  period  of  his  coming  of  age  as  a  time  when  he  should  become  disem- 
barrassed, and  enter  upon  life  with  ample  means,  and  still  more  brilliant 
prospects. 

The  day  arrived.  It  was  celebrated  with  splendour  at  Maristow  Castle. 
Colonel  Viliiers  was  abroad;  but  Lord  Maristow  wrote  to  him  to  remind 
him  of  this  event,  which  otherwise  he  might  have  forgotten.  A  kind  letter 
of  congratulation  was,  in  consequence,  received  from  him  by  Edward  ;  to 
which  was  appended  a  postscript,  saying,  that  on  his  return,  at  the  end  of  a 
few  weeks,  lie  would  consult  concerning  some  arrangements  he  wished  to 
make  with  regard  to  his  future  income. 

His  return  was  deferred  ;  and  Edward  began  to  experience  some  of  the 
annoyances  of  debt.  Still  no  real  pain  was  associated  with  his  feelings , 
though  he  looked  forward  with  eagerness  to  the  hour  of  liberation.  Colonel 
Viliiers  came  at  last.  He  spoke  largely  of  his  intended  generosity,  which 
was  shown,  meanwhile,  by  his  persuading  Edward  to  join  in  a  mortgage 
for  the  sake  of  raising  an  immediate  sum.  Edward  scarcely  knew  what 
he  was  about.  He  was  delighted  to  be  of  service  to  his  father  ;  and  with- 
out thought  or  idea  of  having  made  a  sacrifice,  agreed  to  all  that  was  asked 
of  him.     He  was  promised  an  allowance  of  six  hundred  a  year. 

The  few  years  that  had  passed  since  then  were  full  of  painful  experience 
and  bitter  initiation.  His  light  and  airy  spirit  was  slow  to  conceive  ill,  or  to 
resent  wrong.  When  his  annuity  remained  unpaid,  he  listened  to  his  fa- 
ther's excuses  with  implicit  credence,  and  deplored  his  poverty.  One  day, 
he  received  a  note  from  him,  written,  as  usual,  in  haste  and  confusion,  but 
breathinT  anxiety  and  regret  on  his  account,  and  promising  to  pay  over  to 
him  the  first  money  he  could  obtain.  On  the  evening  of  that  day,  Edward 
was  led  bv  a  friend  into  the  gambling-room  of  a  celebrated  club.  The  first 
man  on  whom  his  eyes  fell,  was  his  father,  who  was  risking  and  losing 
rouleaus  and  notes  in  abundance.  At  one  moment,  while  making  over  a 
lar2;e  sum,  he  suddenly  perceived  his  son.  He  grew  pale,  and  then  a  deep 
blush  spread  itself  over  his  countenance.  Edward  withdrew.  His  young* 
heart  was  pierced  to  the  core.  The  consciousness  of  a  father's  falsehood 
and  iuilt  acted  on  him  as  the  sudden  intelligence  of  some  fatal  disaster 
would  have  done.  He  breathed  thick  —  the  objects  swam  round  him  — he 
hurried  into  the  streets  —  he  traversed  them  one  after  the  other.  It  was 
not  this  scene  alone  —  this  single  act  5  the  veil  was  withdrawn  from  a 
whoft.e  3eries  of  others  similar ;  and  he  became  aware  that  his  parent  had 


100  LODORE. 

stepped  beyond  the  line  of  mere  extravagance  ;  that  he  had  lost  honoura- 
ble feeling  ;  that  lies  were  common  in  his  mouth  ;  and  every  other  —  even 
his  only  child  —  was  sacrificed  to  his  own  selfish  and  bad  passions. 

Edward  never  again  asked  his  father  for  money.  The  immediate  result 
of  the  meeting  in  the  gambling-room,  had  been  his  receiving  <a  portion  of 
what  was  due  to  him  ;  but  his  annuity  was  always  in  arrear,  and  paid  so 
irregularly,  that  it  became  worse  than  nothing  in  his  eyes  :  especially,  as 
the  little  that  he  received  was  immediately  paid  over  to  creditors,  and  to  de- 
fray the  interest  of  borrowed  money. 

He  never  applied  again  to  Colonel  Villiers.  He  would  have  considered 
himself  guilty  of  a  crime,  had  he  forced  his  father  to  forge  fresh  subterfuges, 
and  to  lie  to  his  own  son.  Brought  up  in  the  midst  of  The  wealthy,  he  nad 
early  imbibed  a  horror  of  pecuniary  obligation  ;  and  this  fastidiousness  grew 
more  sensitive  and  peremptory  with  each  added  day  of  hi3  life.  Yet  with 
all  this,  he  had  not  learned  to  set  a  right  value  upon  money ;  and  he  squan- 
dered whatever  he  obtained  with  thoughtless  profusion.  He  had  no  friend 
to  whose  counsel  he  could  recur.  Lord  Maristi  w  railed  against  Colonel 
Villiers ;  and  when  he  heard  of  Edward's  difficulties,  offered  to  remon- 
strate and  force  his  brother-ir -law  to  extricate  him :  but  here  ended  his  as- 
sistance, which  was  earnestly  rejected.  Horatio's  means  were  exceedingly 
limited  ;  but  on  a  word  from  his  cousin,  he  eagerly  besought  him  to  have 
recourse  to  his  purse.  To  avoid  his  kindness,  and  his  uncle's  interference, 
Edward  became  reserved  :  he  had  recourse  to  Jews  and  money-lenders  ; 
and  appeared  at  ease,  while  he  was  involving  himself  in  countless  and  still 
increasing  embarrassments. 

Edward  was  naturally  extravagant ;  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  his 
education  and  position  implanted  and  fostered  habits  of  expense  and  prodi- 
gality, while  his  careless  disposition  was  unapt  to  calculate  consequences: 
his  very  attempts  at  economy  frequently  cost  him  more  than  his  most  ex- 
pensive whims.  He  was  not,  like  his  father,  a  gambler;  nor  did  he  enter 
into  any  very  reprehensible  pleasures  :  but  he  had  little  to  spend,  and  was 
thoughtless  and  confiding ;  and  being  always  in  arrear,  was  forced,  in  a 
certain  way,  to  continue  a  system  which  perpetually  led  him  farther  into 
the  maze,  and  rendered  his  return  impossible.  He  had  no  hope  of  becom- 
ing independent,  except  through  his  father's  death  :  Colonel  Villiers, 
meanwhile,  had  no  idea  of  dying.  He  was  not  fifty  years  of  age ;  and 
considering  his  own  a  better  life  than  his  son's,  involuntarily  speculated 
on  what  he  should  do  if  he  should  chance  to  survive  him.  He  was  a 
handsome  and  a  fashionable  man  :  he  often  meditated  a  second  marriage, 
if  he  could  render  it  advantageous;  and  repined  at  his  inability  to' make 
settlements,  which  was  an  insuperable  impediment  to  his  project.  Edward's 
death  would  overcome  this  difficulty.  Such  were  the  speculations  of  father 
and  son  ;  and  the  portion  of  filial  and  paternal  affection  which  their  rela- 
tive position  but  too  usually  inspires. 

Until  he  was  twenty-one,  Edward  had  never  spent  a  thought  upon  his 
scanty  resources.  Three  years  had  passed  since  then  —  three  brief  years, 
which  had  a  little  taught  him  of  what  homely  stuff  the  world  is  made ; 
yet  care  and  even  reflection  had  not  yet  disturbed  his  repose.  Days, 
months  sped  on,  and  nothing  reminded  him  of  his  relative  wealth  or  pov- 
erty in  a  way  to  annoy  him,  till  he  knew  Ethel.  He  had  been  interested 
for  her  in  America  —  he  had  seen  her,  young  and  lovely,  drowned  in  grief 
—  sorrowing  with  the  heart's  first  prodigal  sorrow  for  her  adored  father. 
He  had  left  her,  and  thought  of  her  no  more —  except,  as  a  passing  reflec- 
tion, that  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  she  was  now  to  become  the  pupil 
of  Lady  Lodore,  and  consequently,  that  her  unsophisticated  feeungs  and 
affectionate  heart  would  speedily  be  tarnished  and  hardened  under  her  in- 
fluence.   He  anticipated  meeting  her  hereafter  in  ball-rooms  and  assem- 


LODORE.  101 

blies,  changed  into  a  flirting,  giddy,  yet  worldly-minded  girl,  intent  upon  a 
good  establishment,  and  a  fashionable  partner. 

He  encountered  her  under  the  sober  and  primitive  guardianship  of  Mrs. 
Fitzhenry,  unchanged  and  unharmed.  The  same  radiant  innocence 
beamed  from  her  face  ;  her  sweet  voice  was  still  true  and  heart-reaching  in 
its  tones ;  her  manner  mirrored  the  purity  and  lustre  of  a  mind  incapable 
of  guile,  and  adorned  with  every  generous  and  gentle  sentiment.  He  drew 
near  her  with  respect  and  admiration,  and  soon  no  other  object  showed  fair 
in  his  eyes  except  Ethel.  She  was  the  star  of  the  world,  and  he  felt  happy 
only  when  the  light  of  her  presence  shone  upon  him.  Her  voice  and  smile 
visited  his  dreams,  and  spoke  peace  and  delight  to  his  heart.  She  was  to 
him  as  a  jewel  (yet  sweeter  and  lovelier  than  any  gem)  shut  up  in  a  cas- 
ket, of  which  he  alone  possessed  the  key  —  as  a  pearl,  of  whose  existence 
an  Indian  diver  is  aware  beneath  the  waves  of  ocean,  deep  buried  from 
every  other  eye. 

There  was  all  in  Ethel  that  could  excite  and  keep  alive  imaginative  and 
tender  love.  In  characterizing  a  race  of  women,  a  delightful  writer  has 
described  her  individually.  "  She  was  in  her  nature  a  superior  being.  Her 
majestic  forehead,  her  dark,  thoughtful  eye,  assured  you  that  she  had  com- 
muned with  herself.  She  could  bear  to  be  left  in  solitude  —  yet  what  a 
look  was  hers  if  animated  by  mirth  or  love !  She  was  poetical,  if  not  a 
poet ;  and  her  imagination  was  high  and  chivalrous.'  *  The  elevated  tone 
of  feeling  fostered  by  her  father,  her  worship  of  his  virtues,  and  the  loneli- 
ness of  her  life  in  the  Illinois,  combined  to  render  her  dissimilar  to  any  girl 
Villiers  had  ever  before  known  or  admired.  When  unobserved,  he  watched 
her  countenance,  and  marked  the  varying  tracery  of  high  thoughts  and 
deep  emotions  pass  over  it ;  her  dark  eye  looked  out.  from  itself  on  vacancy, 
but  read  there  a  meaning  only  to  be  discerned  by  vivid  imagination.  And 
then  when  that  eye,  so  full  of  soul,  turned  on  him,  and  affection  and  pleas- 
ure at  once  animated  and  softened  its  glances  —  when  her  sweet  lips,  so 
delicate  in  their  shape,  so  balmy  and  soft  in  their  repose,  were  wreathed 
into  a  smile  —  he  felt  that  his  whole  being  was  penetrated  with  enthusiastic 
admiration,  and  that  his  nature  had  bent  to  a  law,  from  which  it  could 
never  again  be  liberated. 

That  she  should  mingle  with  the  world  —  enter  into  its  contaminating 
pursuits  —  be  talked  of  in  it  with  that  spirit  of  depreciation  and  imperti- 
nence, which  is  its  essence,  was  odious  to  him,  and  he  was  overjoyed  to 
have  her  safe  at  Richmond  —  secure  from  Lady  Lodore  —  shut  up  apart 
from  all  things,  except  nature — her  unsophisticated  aunt,  and  his  own 
admiration  —  a  bird  of  beauty,  brooding  in  its  own  fair  nest,  unendangered 
by  the  fowler.  These  were  his  feelings  ;  but  by  degrees  other  reflections 
forced  themselves  on  him  ;  and  love,  which,  when  it  has  knocked  and  been 
admitted,  will  be  a  tyrant,  obliged  him  to  entertain  regrets  and  fears  which 
agonized  him.  His  hourly  aspiration  was  to  make  her  his  own.  Would 
that  dear  heart  open  to  receive  into  its  recesses  his  image,  and  thencefor- 
ward dedicate  itself  to  him  only?  Might  he  become  her  lover,  guardian, 
husband  —  and  they  tread  together  the  jungle  of  life,  aiding  each  other  to 
thread  its  mazes,  and  to  ward  off  every  danger  that  might  impend  over  them. 

Bitter  worldly  considerations  came  to  mar  the  dainty  colours  of  this  fair 
picture.  He  could  not  conceal  from  himself  the  poverty  that  must  attend 
him  during  his  fathers  life.  Lord  Lodore's  singular  will  reduced  Ethel's 
prope  tv  to  almost  nothing:  should  he  then  ally  her  to  his  scanty  means 
and  broken  fortune?  His  resolution  was  made.  He  would  not  deny  him- 
self the  present  pleasure  of  seeing  her,  to  spare  any  future  pain  in  which 
he  should  be  the  onh7  snrlVer;  but  on  the  first  token  of  exclusive  regard 
on  her  side,  he  w  >ul  1  with  iraw  for  ever. 

*  Co'.oriJ  •  o's  "  Six  Months  in  the  West  Indies." 
1* 


102  LODORE. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us. 

WCI.DS  WORTH. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry's  morning  task  was  to  read  the  newspapers 
—  the  only  intercourse  she  held  with  the  world,  and  all  her  knowledge  of 
it  was  derived  from  these  daily  sheets.  Ethel  never  looked  at  *hem  —  her 
thoughts  held  no  communion  with  the  vulgar  routine  of  life,  and  she  was 
too  much  occupied  by  her  studies  and  reveries  to  spend  any  time  upon 
topics  so  uninteresting  as  the  state  of  the  nation,  or  the  scandal  of  the 
day. 

One  morning,  while  she  was  painting,  her  aunt  observed,  in  her  usual 
tone  of  voice,  scarce  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  paper,  "  Mr.  \  illiers  did  not 
tell  us  this  —  he  is  going  to  be  married  ;  I  wonder  who  to !" 

"Married!"  repeated  Ethel. 

"  Yes,  my  dea<r,  here  it  is.  '  We  hear  from  good  authority  that  Mr.  Vil- 
liers,  of  Chiverton  Park,  is  about  to  lead  to  the  hymeneal  altar  a  young  and 
lovely  bride,  the  only  child  of  a  gentleman,  said  to  be  the  richest  commoner 
in  England.'  — Who  can  it  be?" 

Ethel  did  not  reply,  and  the  elder  lady  went  on  to  other  parts  of  the  news- 
paper. The  poor  girl,  on  whom  she  had  dealt  all  unaware  this  chance 
mortal  blow,  put.  down  her  brush,  and  hurried  into  the  shruboery  to  conceal 
her  agitation.  Why  did  she  feel  these  sharp  pangs?  Why  did  a  bitter 
delude  of  anguish  overflow  and  seem  to  choke  her  breathing,  and  torture 
her  heart  ?  —  she  could  scarcely  tell.  "  Married  !  —  then  I  shall  never  see 
him  more!"  And  a  passion  of  tears,  not  refreshing,  but  forced  out  by 
agony,  and  causing  her  to  feel  as  if  her  heart  was  bursting,  shook  her  deli- 
cate frame.  At  that  moment  the  well-known  sound,  the  gallopping  of  Vil- 
liers's  horse  up  the  lane,  met  her  ear.  "  Does  he  come  here  to  tell  us  at 
last  of  his  wedding-day?1'  The  horse  came  on  —  it  stopped  —  the  bell 
was  rung.  Little  acts  these,  which  she  had  watched  for,  and  listened  to, 
for  two  months,  with  such  placid  and  innocent  delight;  now  they  seemed 
the  notes  of  preparation  for  a  scene  of  despair.  She  wished  to  retreat  to 
her  own  room  to  compose  herself;  but  it  was  too  late  ;  he  was  already  in 
that  through  which  she  must  pass  —  she  heard  his  voice  speaking  to  her 
aunt.  "Now  is  he  telling  her,"  she  thought.  No  idea  of  reproach,  or  of 
accusation  of  unkindness  in  him,  dawned  on  her  heart.  No  word  of  love 
had  passed  between  them  —  even  yet  she  was  unaware  that  she  loved  her- 
self; it  was  the  instinctive  result  of  this  despot  sentiment,  which  exerted 
its  sway  over  her,  without  her  being  conscious  of  the  cause  of  her  suffer- 
ings. 

The  first  words  of  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  had  been  to  speak  of  the  paragraph 
in  the  newspaper,  and  to  show  it  her  visiter.  Villiers  read  it,  and  con- 
sidered it  curiously.  He  saw  at  once,  that  however  blunderingly  wordod, 
his  father  was  its  hero  ;  and  he  wondered  what  foundation  there  might  be 
for  the  rumour.  "Singular  enough!"  he  said,  carelessly,  as  he  put  the 
paper  down. 

"  You  have  kept  your  secret  well,"  said  Mrs.  Elizabeth. 

"  My  secret !    I  did  not  even  know  that  I  had  one." 

"  I,  at  least,  never  beard  that  you  were  going;  to  be  married." 

"  I !  —  married  !     Where  is  Miss  Fitzheniy?" 

The  concatenation  of  ideas  presented  by  these  words  fell  unremarked 


LOD0R2U  103 

on  the  blunt  senses  of  the  good  lady,  and  she  replied,  "  In  the  shrubbery, 
I  believe,  or  up-stairs :  she  left  me  but  a  moment,  azo." 

Villiers  hastened  to  the  garden,  and  soon  discerned  the  tearful  girl,  who 
was  bending  down  to  pluck  and  arrange  some  flowers,  so  to  hide  her  dis- 
turbed countenance. 

Could  we,  at  the  moment  of  trial,  summon  our  reason  and  our  fore- 
gone resolves  —  could  we  put  the  impression  of  the  present  moment  at  a 
distance,  which,  on  the  contrary,  presses  on  us  with  a  power  as  omnipo- 
tent over  our  soul,  as  a  pointed  sword  piercing  the  flesh  over  our  life,  we 
mi^ht  become  all  that  we  are  not  —  angels  or  demigods,  or  any  other  being 
that  is  not  human.  As  it  is,  the  current  of  the  blood  and  the  texture  of  the 
brain  are  the  machinery  by  which  the  soul  acts,  and  their  mechanism  is  by 
no  means  tractable  or  easily  worked  ;  once  put  in  motion,  we  can  seldom 
control  their  operations  ;  but  our  serener  feelings  are  whirled  into  the 
vortex  they  create.  Thus  Edward  Villiers  had  a  thousand  times  in  his 
reveries  thought  over  the  possibility  of  a  scene  occurring,  such  as  the  one 
he  was  called  upon  to  act  in  now  —  and  had  planned  a  line  of  conduct, 
but,  like  mist  before  the  wind,  this  gossamer  of  the  mind  was  swept  away 
by  an  immediate  appeal  to  his  heart  through  his  outward  sensations.  There 
stood  before  him,  in  all  her  loveliness,  the  creature  whose  image  had  lived 
with  him  by  day  and  by  night,  for  several  long  months  ;  and  the  gase  of 
her  soft  tearful  eyes,  and  the  faltering  tone  of  her  voiee,  were  the  laws  to 
which  his  sense  of  prudence,  of  right,  was  immediately  subjected. 

A  few  confused  sentences  interchanged,  revealed  to  him  that  she  partici- 
pated in  her  aunt's  mistake,  and  her  simple  question,  "  Why  did  you  con- 
ceal this  from  me  ?"  spoke  the  guileiessness  of  her  thoughts,  while  the  an- 
guish which  her  countenance  expressed,  betrayed  that  the  concealment  was 
Rot  the  only  source  of  her  grief. 

This  youn^  pair  were  ignorant  how  dear  they  were  to  each  other. 
Ethel's  affection  was  that  generous  giving  away  of  a  young  heart  which  is 
unaware  of  the  value  of  the  gift  it  makes  -—  she  had  asked  for  and  thought 
of  no  return,  though  her  feeling  was  the  result  of  u  reciprocal  one  on  his 
side  ;  it  was  the  instinctive  love  of  the  dawn  of  womanhood,  subdued  and 
refined  by  her  gentle  nature  and  imaginative  mind.  Edward  was  more 
alive  to  the  nature  of  his  own  sentiments  —  but  his  knowledge  stood  him 
in  no  stead  to  fortify  him  against  the  power  of  Ethel's  tears.  In  a  moment 
they  understood  each  other  — one  second  sufficed  to  cause  the  before  imper- 
vious veil  to  fall  at  their  feet:  they  had  stepped  beyond  this  commonplace 
world,  and  stood  beside  each  other  in  the  new  and  mysterious  region  of 
which  Love  is  emperor. 

"  Dearest  Ethel,"  said  Villiers,  "  I  have  much  to  tell  you.  Do  arrange 
that  we  should  ride  together.  I  have  very  much  to  tell  you.  You  shall 
know  everything,  and  judge  for  us  both,  though  you  should  condemn  me." 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  with  innocent  surprise,  but  no  words  could 
destroy  the  sunshine  that  brightened  her  soul :  to  know  that  she  was  loved 
sufficed  then  to  fill  her  being  to  overflowing  with  happiness,  so  that  there 
was  no  room  for  a  second  emotion. 

The  lovers  rode  out  together,  and  thus  secured  the  tete-a-tete  which 
Villiers  especially  yearned  for.  Although  she  was  country-bred,  Mrs. 
Fitzhenry  was  too  timid  to  mount  on  horseback,  yet  she  could  not  fee1  fear 
for  her  niece,  who,  under  her  father's  guidance,  sat  her  steed  with  an  ease 
and  perfect  command  of  the  animal  which  long  habit  rendered  second  nature 
to  her.  As  they  rode  on,  considerably  in  advance  of  the  groom,  they  were 
at  first  silent  —  the  deep  sweet  silenee  which  is  so  eloquent  of  emotion  — 
till  with  an  effort,  slackening  his  pace,  and  bringing  his  horse  nearer, 
Villiers  began.  He  spoke  of  debt,  of  difficulties,  of  poverty  —  of  his 
KRConquerable  aversion  to  the  making  any  demands  on  his  father  —  fruitless 


T04  LOBORB. 

i 

demands,  for  he  knew  how  involved  Colonel  Viffiers  was,  and  how  incapabfe 
even  of  paying  the  allowance  he  nominally  made  his  son.  He  declared  his 
reluctance  to  drag  Ethel  into  the  sea  of  cares  and  discomforts  that  he  felt 
must  surround  his  youth.  He  besought  her  forgiveness  for  having  lov^d 
her  —  for  having  linked  her  heart  to  his.  He  could  not  willingly  resign  her 
while  he  believed  that  he,  all  unworthy,  was  of  any  worth  in  her  eyes  ;  but 
would  she  not  discard  him  for  ever,  now  that  she  knew  that  he  was  a 
beggar?  and  that  all  to  which  he  could  aspire  was  an  engagement  to  b@ 
fulfilled  at  some  far  distant  day  —  a  day  that  might  never  come  — -when 
fortune  should  smile  on  him.  Ethel  listened  with  exquisite  complacency. 
Every  t*rord  Villiers  spoke  was  fraught  with  tenderness;  his  eye  beamed 
adoration  anr"  sincerest  love.  Consciousness  chained  her  tongue,  and  her 
faltering  voice  refused  to  frame  any  echo  to  the  busy  instigations  of  her 
virgin  heart.  Yet  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  must  speak  ;  as  if  she  were 
called  upon  to  avow  how  light  and  trivial  were  all  worldly  considerations 
in  her  eyes.  With  bashful  confusion  she  at  length  said,  "You  cannot 
think  that  1  care  for  fortune  —  I  was  happy  in  the  Illinois." 

Her  simplicity  of  feeling  was  at  this  moment  infectious.  It  appeared  the 
excess  of  selfishness  to  think  of  any  thing  but  love  in  a  desert  —  while  she 
had  no  desire  beyond.  Indeed,  in  England  or  America,  she  lived  in  a 
desert,  as  far  as  society  was  concerned,  and  felt  not  one  of  those  tenacious 
though  cobweb-seeming  ties,  that  held  sway  over  Villiers.  All  his  explana- 
tions therefore  went  for  nothing.  They  only  felt  that  this  dise<  urse  con- 
cerning him  had  drawn  them  nearer  to  each  other,  and  bad  laid  the  first 
stone  of  an  edifice  of  friendship,  henceforth  to  be  raised  beside,  the  already 
established  one  of  love.  A  sudden  shower  forced  them  also  to  return  home 
with  speed,  and  so  interrupted  any  farther  discussion. 

In  the  evening  Villiers  left  them  ;  and  Ethel  sought,  as  speedily  as  she 
might,  the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber.  She  had  no  idea  of  hiding  any 
circumstance  from  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  ;  but  confidence  is,  more  than  any  other 
thing,  a  matter  of  interchange,  a«d  cannot  be  bestowed  unless  the  giver  is 
certain  of  its  being  received.  They  had  too  little  sympathy  of  taste  or  idea, 
and  were  too  little  in  the  habit  of  communicating  their  inmost  thoughts,  1& 
make  Ethel  recur  to  her  aunt.  Besides,  young  love  is  ever  cradled  in 
mystery ;  —  to  reveal  it  to  the  vulgar  eye  appears  at  once  to  deprive  it  of  its 
celestial  loveliness,  and  to  marry  it  to  the  clodlike  earth.  But  alone  — 
alone  —  she  could  think  over  the  past  day  —  recall  its  minutest  incident; 
and  as  she  imaged  to  herself  the  speaking  fondness  of  her  lover's  eyes,  her 
own  closed,  and  a  thrilling  sense  of  delight  swept  through  her  frame. 
What  a  d  fferent  world  was  this  to  what  it  had  been  the  day  before  I 
The  whole  creation  was  invested  by  a  purer  atmosphere,  balmy  as  paradise, 
which  no  disquieting  thought  could  penetrate.  She  called  upen  her  fathers 
spirit  to  approve  her  attachment ;  and  when  she  reflected  that  Edward's 
hand  had  supported  his  dying  head  —  that  to  Edward  Vilhers's  care  his 
latest  words  had  intrusted  her,  —  she  felt  as  if  she  were  a  legacy  bequeathed 
to  him,  and  that  she  fulfilled  Lodore's  last  behests  in  giving  herself  to  him. 
So  sweetly  and  fondly  did  her  gentle  heart  strive  to  make  a  duty  of  her 
wishes;  and  the  idea  of  her  father's  approbation  set  the  seal  of  rerfect 
satisfaction  on  her  dream  of  bliss. 

It  was  somewhat  otherwise  with  Villiers.  Things  went  on  as  before,, 
and  he  came  nearly  everyday  to  Richmond  ;  but  while  Ethel  rested  satisfied  ' 
with  seeing  him,  and  receiving  slight,  cherished  tokens  of  his  unabated 
regard, — as  his  voice  assumed  a  more  familiar  tone,  and  his  attentions 
became  more  affectionate  ;  —  while  these  were  enough  for  Ethel,  he  thought 
of  the  future,  and  saw  it  each  day  dressed  in  gloomier  colours.  In  Ethel's 
presence,  indeed,  he  forgot  all  but  her.  He  loved  her  fervently,  and  beheld 
an  her  all  that  he  most  admired  in  woman :  her  clearness  of  spirit,,  he? 


LODORE.  105 

singleness  of  heart,  her  unsuspicious  and  ingenuous  disposition,  were 
irresistibly  fascinating;  — and  why  not  spend  their  lives  thus  in  solitude?  — 
his  —  their  mutual  fortune  mi^ht  afford  this:  —  why  not  for  ever  thus  — 
the  happy  —  the  beloved'?  —  his  life  might  pass  like  a  dream  of  joy  ;  and 
that  paradise  might  be  realized  on  earth,  the  impossibility  of  which  philoso- 
phers have  demonstrated,  and  worldlings  scoffed  at. 

Thus  he  thought  while  in  the  same  room  with  Ethel;  —  while  on  his 
evening  ride  back  to  town,  her  form  glided  before  him,  and  her  voice 
sounded  in  his  ears,  it  seemed  that  where  Ethel  was  no  one  earthly  bliss 
could  be  wanting ;  where  she  was  not,  a  void  must  exist,  dark  and  dreary 
as  a  starless  night.  But  his  progress  onward  took  him  out  of  the  magic 
circle  her  presence  drew  ;  a  portion  of  his  elevated  feeling  deserted  him  at 
each  step  ;  it  fell  off,  like  the  bark  peeling  from  a  tree,  in  successive  coats, 
till  he  was  left  with  scarce  a  vestige  of  its  brightness  ;  — as  the  hue  and 
the  scent  deserts  the  flower  when  deprived  of  light,  —  so,  when  away  from 
Ethel,  her  lover  lost  half  the  excellence  which  her  presence  bestowed. 

Edward  Villiers  was  eminently  sociable  in  his  disposition.  He  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  thick  of  life,  and  knew  not  how  to  live  apart  from  it. 
His  frank  and  cordial  heart  danced  within  his  bosom  when  he  was  among 
those  who  sympathized  with  and  liked  him.  He  was  much  courted  in 
society,  and  had  many  favourites  :  and  how  Ethel  would  like  these,  and  be 
liked  by  them,  Avas  a  question  he  perpetually  asked  himself.  He  knew 
the  worldliness  of  many, — their  defective  moral  feeling,  and  their  narrow 
views  ;  but  he  believed  that  they  were  attached  to  him,  and  no  man  was 
ever  less  a  misanthrope  than  he.  He  wished,  if  married  to  Ethel,  to  see 
her  a  favourite  in  his  own  circle  ;  but  he  revolted  from  the  idea  of  presenting 
her,  except  under  favourable  auspices,  surrounded  by  the  decorations  ot 
rank  and  wealth.  To  give  up  the  woild,  the  English  world,  formed  no 
portion  of  his  picture  of  bliss  ;  and1  to  occupy  a  subordinate,  degraded, 
permitted  place  in  it,  was,  to  one  initiated  in  its  supercilious  and  insolent 
assu  nptioos,  not  to  be  endured. 

The  picture  had  also  a  darker  side,  which  was  too  often  turned  towards 
him.  If  he  felt  hesitation  when  he  regarded  its  brighter  aspect,  as  soon  as 
this  was  dimmed,  the  whole  cu-rent  of  his  feelings  turned  the  other  way; 
and  he  called  himself  villain,  for  dreaming  of  allying  Ethel,  not  to  poverty 
alone,  but  to  its  wo'st  consequences  and  disgrace,  in  the  shape  of  debt. 
"  I  am  a  beggar. "  he  thought ;  "  one  of  many  wants,  and  unable  to  provide 
for  any; — the  most  poverty-stricken  of  beggars,  who  has  pledged  away 
even  his  liberty,  were  it  claimed  of  him.  I  look  forward  to  the  course  of 
years  with  disgust.  I  cannot  calculate  the  ills  that  may  occur,  or  with  how 
tremendous  a  weight  the  impending  ruin  may  fall.  I  can  bear  it  alone  ;  but 
did  I  see  her  humiliated,  whom  I  would  gladly  place  on  a  throne,  —  by 
heavens!  I  could  not  endure  life  on  such  terms!  and  a  pistol,  or  some  other 
dreadful  means,  would  put  an  end  to  an  existence  become  intolerable." 

As  these  thoughts  fermented  within  him,  he  longed  to  pour  them  out  be- 
fore Ethel;  to  unload  his  mind  of  its  care,  to  exp-ess  the  sincere  affection 
that  led  him  to  her  side,  and  yet  urged  him  to  exile  himself  for  ever.  He 
rode  over  each  day  to  Richmond,  intent  on  such  a  design  ;  but  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, the  fogs  and  clouds  that  thickened  round  his  soul  »*ew  lighter.  At 
first  his  pace, was  regulated-;  as  he  drew  nearer,  he  pressed  his  horse's  flank 
with  impatient  heeCand  bounded  forward.  Each  turn  in  the  road  was  a 
step  nearer  the  sunshine.  Now  the  bridge,  the  open  field,  the  winding  lane, 
were  passed  ;  the  walls  of  her  abode,  and  its  embowered  windows,  present- 
ed themselves  ;  — they  m°t ;  and  the  glad  look  that  welcome  i  bin  d  ove 
far  away  every  thought  of  banishment,  and  dispelled  at  once  every  remnant 
(A  doubt  and  despondency. 

This  state  of  things  might  have  gone  on  much  longer,  —already  had  it 


106  lodore. 

been  protracted  for  two  months, — but  for  an  accidental  conversation  be- 
tween Lady  Lodore  and  Villiers.  Since  the  morning  after  the  opera,  they 
had  scarcely  seen  each  other.  Edward's  heart  was  too  much  occupied  to 
permit  him  to  join  in  the  throng  of  a  ball-room  ;  and  they  had  no  chance  of 
meeting,  except  in  general  society.  One  evening,  at  the  opera,  the  lady  who 
accompanied  Lady  Lodore,  asked  a  gentleman,  who  had  just  come  into 
their  box,  "  What  had  become,  of  Edward  Villiers  ?  — he  was  never  to  be 
seen  ?" 

"  He  is  going  to  be  married,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  he  is  in  constant  attend- 
ance on  the  fair  lady  at  Richmond." 

"  I  had  not  heard  of  this,"  observed  Lady  Lodore,  who,  for  Horatio's  sake, 
felt  an  interest  for  his  favourite  cousin. 

"  It  is  very  little  known.  The  fiancee  lives  out  of  the  world,  and  no  one 
can  tell  any  thing  about  her.  I  did  hear  her  name.  Young  Cray  croft  has 
seen  them  riding  together  perpetually  in  Richmond  Park  and  on  Wimble- 
don Common,  he  told  me.  Miss  Fitzroy  — no ;  —  Miss  Fitz-something  it 
is ;  —  Fitzgeorge  ?  —  no ;  —  Fitzhenry  ?  —  yes  ;  Miss  Fitzhenry  is  the  name." 

Cornelia  reddened,  and  asked  no  more  questions.  She  controlled  her 
agitation  ;  and  at  first,  indeed,  she  was  scarcely  aware  how  much  she  felt: 
but  while  the  whole  house  was  listening  to  a  favourite  air,  and  her  thoughts 
had  leisure  to  rally,  they  came  on  her  painfully,  and  involuntary  tears  filled 
her  eyes.  It  was  sad,  indeed,  to  hear  of  her  child  as  of  a  stranger  ;  and  to  be 
made  to  feel  sensibly  how  wide  the  gulf  was  that  separated  them.  "  My 
sweet  girl — my  own  Ethel! — are  you  indeed  so  lost  to  me  ?"  As  her 
heart  breathed  this  ejaculation,  she  felt  the  downy  cheek  of  her  babe  close 
to  hers,  and  its  little  fingers  press  her  bosom.  A  moment's  recollection 
brought  another  image:  —  Ethel,  grown  up  to  womanhood,  educated  in  ha- 
tred of  her,  negligent  and  unfilial  ;  —  this  was  not  the  little  cherub  whose 
loss  she  lamented.  Let  her  look  round  the  crowd  then  about  her  ;  and 
among  the  fair  girls  she  saw,  any  one  was  as  near  her  in  affection  and  duty, 
as  the  child  so  early  torn  from  her,  to  be  for  ever  estranged  and  lost. 

The  baleful  part  of  Cornelia's  character  was  roused  by  these  reflections  ; 
her  pride,  her  self-will,  her  spirit  of  resistance.  "  And  for  this  she  has  been 
taken  from  me,"  she  thought,  "  to  marry,  while  yet  a  child,  a  ruined  man  — 
to  be  wedded  to  care  and  indigence.  Thus  would  it  not  have  been  had  she 
been  intrusted  to  me.  Oh,  how  hereafter  she  may  regret  the  injuries  of  her 
mother,  when  she  feels  the  effects  of  them  in  her  own  adversity  !  It  is  not 
for  me  to  prevent  this  ill-judged  union.  The  aunt  and  niece  would  see  in 
my  opposition  a  motive  to  hasten  it :  wise  as  they  fancy  themselves  —  wise 
and  good  —  what  I,  the  reviled,  reprobated,  they  would  therefore  pursue 
with  more  eagerness.     Be  it  so  — ■  my  day  will  yet  come  !" 

A  glance  of  triumph  shot  across  her  face  as  she  indulged  in  this  emotion 
of  revenge;  the  most  deceitful  and  reprehensible  of  human  feelings —  re- 
venge against  a  child —  how  sad  at  best*— how  sure  to  bring  with  it  its 
recompense  of  bitterness  of  spirit  and  remorse!  But  Cornelia's  heart  had 
been  rudely  crushed,  and  in  the  ruin  of  her  best  affections,  her  mother  had 
substituted  noxious  passions  of  many  kinds  —  pride  chief  of  all. 

While  thus  excited  and  indignant,  she  saw  Edward  "Villiers.  He  came 
into  her  box  ;  the  lady  with  her  was  totally  unaware  of  what  had  been  pass- 
ing in  her  thoughts,  nor  reverted  to  the  name  mentioned  as  having  any 
connexion  with  her.  She  asked  Villiers  if  it  were  true  that  he  was  going 
to  be  married  ?  Lady  Lodore  heard  the  question  ;  she  turned  on  him  her 
eyes  full  of  significant  meaning,  and  with  a  smile  of  scorn  answered  for 
him,  "Oh  yes,  Mr.  Villiers  is  going  to  be  married.  His  bride  is  young, 
beautiful,  and  portionless  ;  bur  he  has  the  tastes  of  a  hermit — he  means  to 
emigrate  to  America  —  his  simple  and  inexpensive  habits  are  admirably 
suited  to  the  wilderness." 


LODORE.  J07 

This  was  said  as  if  in  jest,  and  answered  in  the  same  tone.  The  third 
J.n  the  trio  joined  in,  quite  unaware  of  the  secret  meaning  of  the  conversa- 
tion. Several  bitter  allusions  were  made  by  Lady  Lodore,  and  the  truth  of 
all  she  said  sent  her  words  home  to  Edward's  heart.  She  drew,  as  if  play- 
fully, a  representation  of  high-bred  indigence,  that  made  his  blood  curdle. 
As  if  she  could  read  his  thoughts,  she  echoed  their  worst  suggestions;,  ami 
unrolled  the  page  of  futurity,  such  as  he  had  often  depicted  it  to  himself 
presenting  in  sketchy,  yet  forcible  colours,  a  picture  from  which  his  soul 
recoiled.  He  would  have  escaped,  but  there  was  a  fascination  in  tht  topic, 
and  in  the  very  bitterness  of  spirit  which  she  awakened.  He  rather  en- 
couraged her  to  proceed,  while  he  abhorred  her  for  so  doing,  acknowledcdno' 
the  while  the  justice  of  all  she  said.  Lady  Lodore  was  angry,  and  shefeit 
pleasure  in  the  pain  she  inflicted  ;  her  wit  became  keener,  her  sarcasm  more 
pointed,  yet  stopping  short  with  care  of  any  thing  that  should  betray  her  to 
their  companion,  and  avoiding,  with  inimitable  tact,  any  expression  that 
should  convey  to  one  not  in  the  secret,  that  she  meant  any  thing  more  than 
raillery  or  good-humoured  quizzing,  as  it  is  called. 

At  length  Villiers  took  his  leave.  "Were  J,"  he  said,  "the  unfortunate 
man  you  represent  me  to  be,  you  would  have  to  answer  for  my  life  this 
night.  But  reassure  yourself — it  is  all  a  dream.  I  have  no  thoughts  of 
marrying  ;  and  the  fair  girl,  whose  fate  as  my  wife  Lady  Lodore  so  kindly 
compassionates,  is  safe  from  every  danger  of  becoming  the  victim  of  my 
selfishness  and  poverty." 

This  was  said  laughing,  yet  an  expressive  intonation  of  voice  conveyed 
his  full  meaning  to  Cornelia.  "  I  have  done  a  good  deed  if  I  have  prevented 
this  marriage,"  she  thought ;  "  yet  a  thankless  one.  After  all,  he  is  a 
gentleman,  and  under  sister  Bessy's  guardianship,  poor  Ethel  might  fall  into 
worse  hands." 

While  Lady  Lodore  thus  dismissed  her  anger  and  all  thought  of  its 
cause,  Villiers  felt  more  resentment  than  had  ever  before  entered  his  kind 
heart.  The  truths  which  the  lady  had  spoken  were  unpalatable,  and  the 
mode  in  which  they  were  uttered  was  still  more  disagreeable.  He  hated 
her  for  having  discovered  them,  and  for  presenting  them  so  vividly  to  his 
sight.  At  one  moment  he  resolved  never  to  see  Ethel  more ;  while  he  felt 
that  he  loved  her  with  tenfold  tenderness,  and  would  have  given  worlds 
to  become  the  source  of  all  happiness  to  her  —  wishing  this  the  more 
ardently,  because  her  mother  had  pictured  him  as  being  the  cause  to  her  of 
everv  ill. 

Edward's  nature  was  very  impetuous,  but  perfectly  generous.  The 
tempest  of  anger  allayed,  he  considered  all  that  Lady  Lodore  had  said 
impartially ;  and  while  he  felt  that  she  had  only  repeated  what  he  had  told 
himself  a  thousand  times,  he  resolved  not  to  permit  resentment  to  control 
him,  and  to  turn  him  from  the  right  path.  He  felt  also,  that  he  ought  no 
longer  to  delay  acting  on  his  good  resolutions.  His  intercourse  with  Miss 
Fitzhenry  had  begun  to  attract  attention,  and  must  therefore  cease.  Once 
again  he  would  ride  over  to  Richmond  —  once  again  see  her  —  say  fare- 
well, and  then  stoically  banish  every  pleasant  dream  —  every  heart-enthrall- 
ing hope  --  willingly  sacrificing  his  dearest  wishes  at  the  shrine  of  her 
welfare. 


JOS  LODORS. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

She  to  a  window  came,  that  opened  west, 
Towards  winch  coast  her  love  his  way  addresf. 
There  looking  forth  she  in  her  heart  did  find 

Many  vain  fancies  working  her  unrest, 
And  sent  her  winged  thoughts  more  swift  than  wind 
To  bear  unto  her  love  the  message  of  her  mind. 

The  Faerie  Queek. 

Ethel,  happy  In  her  seclusion,  was  wholly  unaware  of  her  mother's 
interference  and  its  effects.  She  had  not  the  remotest  suspicion  mat  it  would 
be  considered  as  conducive  to  her  welfare  to  banish  the  only  friend  that  she 
had  in  the  world.  In  her  solitary  position,  life  was  a  blank  without  Edward ; 
and  while  she  congratulated  herself  on  her  good  fortune  in  the  concur- 
rence of  circumstances  that  had  brought  them  together,  and,  as  she  be- 
lieved, established  her  happiness  on  the  dearest  and  most  secure  founda-  ' 
tions,  she  was  far  from  imagining  that  he  was  perpetually  revolving  the 
necessity  of  bidding  her  adieu  for  ever.  If  she  had  been  told  two  years 
before,  that  all  intercourse  between  her  and  her  father  were  to  cease,  it 
would  scarcely  have  seemed  more  unnatural  or  impossible,  than  that  such 
a  decree  should  be  issued  to  divide  her  from  one  to  whom  her  young  heart 
was  entirely  given.  She  relied  on  him  as  the  support  of  her  life  —  her 
guide  and  protector  —  she  loved  him  as  the  giver  of  good  to  her  —  she 
almost  worshipped  him  for  the  many  virtues,  which  he  either  really  pos- 
sessed, or  with  which  her  fondness  bounteously  gifted  him. 

Meanwhile  the  unacute  observations  of  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  began  to  be 
awakened.  She  gave  herself  great  credit  for  discovering  that  there  was 
something  singular  in  the  constant  attendance  of  Edward,  and  yet.  in  fact, 
she  owed  her  illumination  on  this  point  to  her  man  of  law.  Mr.  Hum- 
phries, whom  she  had  seen  on  business  the  day  before,  finding  how  regular 
a  visiter  Villiers  was,  and  their  only  one,  first  elevated  his  eyebrows,  and 
then  relaxed  into  a  smile,  as  he  said,  "  I  suppose  I  am  soon  to  wish  Miss 
Fitzhenry  joy."  This  same  day  Edward  had  ridden  down  to  them  ;  a  vio- 
lent storm  prevented  his  return  to  town  ;  he  slept  at  the  inn,  and  breakfasted 
with  the  ladies  in  the  morning.  There  was  something  familiar  and  home- 
felt  in  his  appearance  at  the  breakfast  table,  that  filled  Ethel  with  delight. 
"Women,"  says  the  accomplished  author  of  Paul  Clifford,  "think  that 
they  must  always  love  a  man  whom  they  have  seen  in  his  night-cap." 
There  is  deep  philosophy  in  this  observation,  and  it  was  a  portion  of  that 
feeling  which  made  Ethel  feel  so  sweetly  complacent,  when  Villiers,  un- 
bidden, rang  the  bell,  and  gave  his  orders  to  the  servant,  as  if  he  had  been 
at  home. 

Aunt  Bessy  started  a  little  ;  and  while  the  young  people  were  strolling 
in  the  shrubbery  and  renewing  the  flowers  in  the  vases,  she  was  pondering 
on  the  impropriety  of  their  position,  and  wondering  how  she  could  break 
off  an  intimacy  she  had  hitherto  encouraged.  But  one  way  presented  itself 
to  her  plain  imagination,  the  old  resource,  a  return  to  Longfield.  With 
light  heart  and  glad  looks,  Ethel  bounded  up  stairs  to  dress  for  dinner,  and 
she  was  twining  her  ringlets  round  her  taper  fingers  before  the  glass,  when 
her  aunt  entered  with  a  look  of  serious  import.  "  My  dear  Ethel,  1  have 
something  important  to  say  to  you." 

Ethel  stopped  in  her  occupation,  and  turned  inquiring  eyes  on  her  aunt. 
"  My  dear,"  continued  Mrs.  Fitzhenry,  "  we  have  been  a  long  time  away , 
if  you  please,  we  will  return  to  Longfield." 

This  time  Ethel  did  not  grow  pale  ;  she  turned  again  to  the  mirror,  say- 


LODORE.  109 

ing  with  a  smile  that  lighted  her  whole  countenance,  "  Dear  aunt,  that  ig 
impossible  —  I  would  rather  not." 

No  negative  could  have  been  more  imposing  on  the  good  lady  than  this ; 
she  did  not  know  how  to  reply,  how  to  urge  her  wish.  "  Dearest  aunt," 
continued  her  niece,  "  you  are  losing  time  — dinner  will  be  announced,  and 
you  are  not  dressed.  We  will  talk  of  Longfield  to-morrow  —  we  must 
no*  keep  Mr.  Villiers  waiting." 

It  was  often  the  custom  of  Aunt  Bessy,  like  the  father  of  Hamlet,  to 
sleep  after  dinner;  she  did  not  betake  herself  to  her  orchard,  but  her  arm- 
chair, for  a  few  minutes'  gentle  doze.  Ethel  and  Villiers  meanwhile  walked 
out,  and,  descending  to  the  river  side,  they  were  enticed  by  the  beauty  oi 
the  evening  to  go  upon  the  water.  Ethel  was  passionately  fond  of  every 
natural  amusement ;  boating  was  a  pleasure  that  she  enjoyed  almost  more 
than  any  other,  and  one  with  which  she  was  seldom  indulged ;  for  her 
spinster  aunt  had  so  many  fears  and  objections,  and  considered  every  event 
but  sitting  still  in  her  drawing-room,  or  a  quiet  drive  with  her  old  horses, 
as  so  fraught  with  danger  and  difficulty,  that  it  required  an  absolute  battle 
ever  to  obtain  her  consent  for  her  niece  to  go  on  the  river  —  she  would  have 
died  before*  she  could  have  entered  a  boat  herself,  and,  walking  at  the 
water's  edge,  she  always  insisted  that  Ethel  should  keep  close  to  the  bank, 
while,  by  the  repetition  of  expressions  of  alarm  and  entreaties  to  return, 
she  destroyed  every  possibility  of  enjoyment. 

The  river  sped  swiftly  on,  calm  and  free.  There  is  always  life  in  a 
stream,  of  which  a  lake  is  frequently  deprived,  when  sleeping  beneath  a 
windless  sky.  A  river  pursues  for  ever  its  course,  accomplishing  the  task 
its  Creator  has  imposed,  and  its  waters  are  for  ever  changing  while  they 
seem  the  same.  It  was  a  balmy  summer  evening ;  the  air  seemed  to  brood 
over  the  earth,  warming  and  nourishing  it.  All  nature  reposed,  and  yet 
not  as  a  lifeless  thing,  but  with  the  same  enjoyment  of  rest  as  gladdened 
the  hearts  of  the  two  beings,  who,  with  gratitude  and  love,  drank  in  the 
influence  of  this  softest  hour  of  day.  The  equal  splash  of  the  oar,  or  its 
dripping  when  suspended,  the  clear  reflection  of  tree  and  lawn  in  the 
river,  the  very  colour  of  the  stream,  stolen  as  it  was  from  heaven  itself,  the 
plash  of  the  wings  of  the  water-fowl  who  skimmed  the  waves  towards 
their  rushy  nests,  —  every  sound  and  every  appearance  was  beautiful,  har- 
monious, and  soothing.  Ethel's  soul  was  at  peace  ;  grateful  to  Heaven, 
and  satisfied  with  every  thing  around  her,  a  tenderness  beamed  from  her 
eyes,  and  was  diffused  over  her  attitude,  and  attuned  her  voice,  which  acted 
as  a  spell  to  make  Edward  forget  every  thing  but  herself. 

They  had  both  been  silent  for  some  time,  a  sweet  silence  more  eloquent 
than  anv  words,  when  Ethel  observed,  "My  aunt  wishes  to  return  to 
Loncrfield." 

Villiers  started  as  if  he  had  trodden  upon  a  serpent,  exclaiming,  "  To 
Lonsrfield  !  Oh  yes  !  that  were  far  best —  when  shall  you  go  ?" 

"  Why  is  it  best  ?     Why  should  we  go  ?"  asked  Ethel  with  surprise. 

"  Because,"  replied  Villiers  impetuously,  "  it  had  been  better  that  you 
had  never  left  it  —  that  we  had  never  met!  It  is  not.  thus  that  I  can  fulfil 
my  promise  to  your  father  to  guard  and  be  kind  to  his  child.  I  am  prac- 
tising on  your  ignorance,  taking  advantage  of  your  loneliness,  and  doing 
you  an  injury,  for  which  I  should  call  any  other  a  villain,  were  he  guiltv." 

It  was  the  very  delight  that  Edward  had  been  a  moment  before  enjovincr, 
the  very  beauty  and  calmness  of  nature,  and  the  serenity  and  kindness  of 
the  sweet  face  turned  towards  him,  which  stirred  such  bitterness  ;  check- 
ing himself,  however,  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  in  a  more  subsided  tone. 

"  Are  there  any  words  by  which  I  can  lay  bare  my  heart  to  you,  Ethel  ? 
—  None  !  To  speak  of  my  true  and  entire  attachment,  is  almost  an  insult ; 
and  to  tell  you,  that  I  tear  myself  from  you  for  vour  own  sake,  sounds  like 
33-2 


110  I.ODORE. 

impertinence.  Yet  all  this  is  true  ;  and  it  is  the  reverence  that  I  have  for 
your  excellence,  the  idolatry  which  your  singleness  of  heart  and  sincere 
nature  inspires,  which  prompts  me  to  speak  the  truth,  though  that  be  dif 
ferent  from  the  usual  language  of  gallantry,  or  what  is  called  love. 

"  Will  you  hate  me  or  pity  me  most,  when  I  speak  of  my  determination 
never  to  see  you  more?  You  cannot  guess  how  absolutely  I  air  a  ruined 
man  —  how  I  am  one  of  those  despicable  hangers-on  of  the  rich  and  noble, 
who  cover  my  rags  with  mere  gilding,  I  am  a  beggar  —  1  have  i)ot  a 
shilling  that  I  can  call  my  own,  and  it  is  only  by  shifts  and  meannesses 
that  I  can  go  on  from  day  to  day,  while  each  one  menaces  me  with  a  prison 
or  flight  to  a  foreign  country. 

"  I  shall  go  —  and  you  will  regret  me,  Ethel,  or  you  will  despise  me.  It 
were  best  of  all  that  you  forgot  me.  I  am  not  worthy  of  you  —  no  man 
could  be  :  that  I  have  known  you  and  loved  you  —  and  for  your  sake, 
banished  myself  from  you,  will  be  the  solitary  ray  of  comfort  that  will  shed 
some  faint  glow  over  my  chilled  and  darkened  existence.  "Will  you  say 
even  now  one  word  of  comfort  to  me  ?" 

Ethei  look^i  up  •  the  pure  affectionat'  ness  r?  'jer  heart  prevented  her 
frim  feeling  for  herself ;  sue  thought  on.y  of  her  lover.  "Would  that  I 
could  comfort  you,"  she  said.  "  You  will  do  what  you  think  right,  and 
that  will  be  your  best  consolation.  Do  not  speak  of  hatred,  or  contempt, 
or  indifference.  [  shall  not  change,  though  we  part  for  ever  :  how  is  it  pos- 
sible that  I  should  ever  cease  to  feel  regard  for  one  who  has  ever  been  kind, 
considerate,  and  generous  to  me  ?  Go,  if  you  think  it  right  —  I  am  a  fool- 
ish girl,  and  know  nothing  of  the  world  ;  and  I  will  not  doubt  V  at  you 
decide  for  the  best." 

Villiers  took  her  hand  and  held  it  in  his  ;  his  heart  was  penetrated  by 
her  disinterested  self-forgetfulness  and  confidence.  He  felt  that  he  was 
loved,  and  that  he  was  about  to  part  from  her  for  ever.  The  pain  and 
pleasure  of  these  thoughts  mingled  strangely  —  he  had  no  words  to  express 
them,  he  felt  that  it  would  be  easier  to  die  than  to  give  her  up. 

Au->t  Bessy,  on  the  river's  bank  imploring  their  return,  recalled  them 
from  the  fairy  region  to  which  their  spirits  had  wandered.  For  one  moment 
they  had  been  united  in  sentiment ;  one  kindred  emotion  of  perfect  affection 
had,  as  it  were,  married  their  souls  one  to  the  other ;  at  the  alien  sound  ot 
poor  Bessy's  voice  the  spell  fled  away  on  airy  wings,  leaving  them  disen- 
chanted. The  rudder  was  turned,  the  boat  reached  the  shore,  and  unable 
to  endure  frivolous  talk  about  any  subject  except  the  one  so  near  his  heart, 
Villiers  departed  and  rode  back  to  town,  miserable  yet  most  happy  —  de- 
spairing yet  full  of  joy  ;  to  such  a  riddle,  love,  which  finds  its  completion 
in  svmpathy,  and  knows  no  desire  beyond,  is  the  only  solution. 

The  feelings  of  Ethel  were  even  more  unalloyed.  She  had  no  doubts 
about  the  future,  the  present  embraced  the  world.  She  did  not  attempt  to 
unravel  the  dreamy  confusion  of  her  thoughts,  or  to  clear  up  the  golden  mist 
that  hung  before,  curtaining  most  gloriously  the  reality  beyond.  Her  step 
was  buoyant,  her  eyes  sparkling  and  joyous.  Love  and  gladness  sat  lightly 
on  her  bosom,  and  gratitude  to  Heaven  for  bestowing  so  deep  a  sense  of 
happiness  was  the  only  sentiment  that  mingled  with  these.  Villiers,  on 
leaving  them,  had  promised  to  return  the  next  day  ;  and  on  the  morrow 
she  rose,  animated  with  such  a  spirit,  as  may  be  kindled  within  the  bosem 
of  an  enchantress,  when  she  pronounces  the  spell  which  is  to  control  the 
movements  of  the  planetary  orbs.  She  was  more  than  queen  of  the  world, 
for  she  was  empress  of  Edward's  heart,  and  ruling  there,  she  reigned  over 
the  course  of  destiny,  and  bent  to  her  will  the  conflicting  elements  of  life. 

He  did  not  come.  It  was  strange.  Now  hope,  now  fear,  were  inter- 
changed one  for  the  other,  till  night  and  certain  disappointment  arrived. 
Yet  it  was  not  much  —  the  morrow's  sun  would  light  him  on  his  way  to 


LODORE.  HI 

hor.  To  cheat  the  lagging  hours  of  the  morrow,  she  occupied  herself  with 
her  painting  and  music,  tasking  herself  to  give  so  many  hours  to  her  em- 
ployments, thus  to  add  speed  to  the  dilatory  walk  of  time.  The  long  day 
was  passed  in  fruitless  expectation  —  another  and  another  succeeded.  "Was 
he  ill  ?  What  strange  mutation  in  the  course  of  nature  had  occurred  to 
occasion  so  inexplicable  an  absence  ? 

A  week  went  by,  and  even  a  second  was  nearly  spent.  She  had  not 
anticipated  this  estrangement.  Day  by  day  she  went  over  hi  her  lmnd  their 
last  conversation,  and  Edward's  expressions  gathered  decision  and  a  gloomy 
reality  as  she  pondered  on  them.  The  idea  of  an  heroic  sacrifice  on  his 
part,  and  submission  to  his  will  on  hers,  at  first  soothed  her —  but  never  to 
see  him  more  was  an  alternative  that  tasked  her  fortitude  too  high ;  and 
while  her  heart  felt  all  the  tumults  of  despair,  she  found  herself  asking 
what  his  love  could  be,  that  could  submit  to  lose  her?  Love  in  a  cottage 
is  the  dream  of  many  a  high-born  girl,  who  is  not  allowed  to  dance  with  a 
younger  brother  at  Almack's  ;  but  a  secluded,  an  obscure,  an  almost  cot- 
tage life,  was  all  that  Ethel  had  ever  known,  and  all  that  she  coveted. 
Villiers  rejected  this  —  not  for  her  sake,  that  could  not  be,  but  for  the  sake 
of  a  world,  which  he  called  frivolous  and  vain,  and  yet  to  whose  tyranny 
he  bowed.  To  disentwine  the  tangled  skein  of  thought  which  was  thus 
presented,  was  her  task  by  day  and  night.  She  awoke  in  the  morning, 
and  her  first  thought  was,  "  Will  he  come  f"  She  retired  at  night,  and 
sleep  visited  her  eyes,  while  she  was  asking  herself,  "  Why  has  he  not 
been?"  During  the  day,  these  questions,  in  every  variety,  forced  her  at- 
tention. To  escape  from  her  aunt,  to  seek  solitude,  to  listen  to  each  sound 
that  might  be  his  horse,  and  to  feel  her  heart  sicken  at  the  still  renewed 
disappointment,  became,  in  spite  of  herself,  all  her  occupation  :  she  might 
bend  over  her  drawing,  or  escape  from  her  aunt's  conversation  to  the  piano  ; 
but  these  were  no  longer  employments,  but  rather  means  adopted  to  deliver 
herself  up  more  entirely  to  her  reveries. 

The  third,  the  fourth  week  came,  and  the  silence  of  death  was  between 
Ethel  and  her  friend.  Oh,  but  for  one  word,  one  look  to  break  the  spell  1 
Was  she  indeed  never  to  see  him  more?  Was  all,  all  over? — was  the 
harmony  their  two  hearts  made,  jarred  into  discord  ?  —  was  she  again  the 
orphan,  alone  in  the  world  ?  —  and  was  the  fearless  reliance  she  had  placed 
upon  fate  and  Edward's  fidelity,  mere  folly  or  insanity  ?  —  and  was  dese- 
cration and  forgetfu'iiess  to  come  over  and  to  destroy  the  worship  she  had 
so  fondly  cherished  ?  Nothing  had  she  to  .turn  to  —  nothing  to  console 
her.  Her  life  became  one  thought,  it  twined  round  her  soul  like  a  serpent, 
and  compressed  and  crushed  every  other  emotion  with  its  folds.  "  I  could 
bear  all,"  she  thought,  "  were  I  permitted  to  see  him  only  once  again." 

She  and  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  were  invited  by  Mrs.  Humphries  to  dine  with 
her.  They  were  asked  to  the  awful  ceremony  of  spending  a  long  day, 
which,  in  the  innocence  of  her  heart,  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  fancied  the  most  de- 
lightful thing  in  the  world.  She  thought  that  kindness  and  friendship 
demanded  of  her  that  she  she  should  be  in  Montague-square  by  ten  in  the 
morning.  Notwithstanding  every  exertion,  she  could  not  get  there  till  two, 
and  then,  when  luncheon  was  over,  she  wondered  why  the  gap  of  time  till 
seven  appeared  so  formidable.  This  was  to  be  got  over  by  a  drive  in  Hyde- 
park.  Ethel  had  shown  peculiar  pleasure  in  the  idea  of  visiting  London  ; 
she  had  looked  bright,  and  happy  during  their  journey  to  town,  but  anxiety 
and  agitation  clouded  her  face,  at  the  thought  of  the  park,  of  the  crisis  about 
to  arrive,  at  the  doubt  and  hope  she  entertained  of  finding  Villiers  there. 

The  park  became  crowded,  but  he  was  not  in  the  drive ;  at  length  he 
entered  in  the  midst  of  a  bevy  of  fair  cousins,  whom  Ethel  did  not  know  as 
such.  He  entered  on  horseback,  flanked  on  either  side  by  pretty  eques- 
trians, looking  as  gay  and  light-hearted,  as  she  would  have  done,  had  she 


112  LODORE. 

been  one,  ths  chosen  one  among  his  companions.  Twice  he  passed.  The 
first  time  his  head  was  averted  —  he  saw  nothing,  she  even  did  not  see  his 
face:  the  next  time,  his  eye  caught  the  aspect  of  the  well-known  chariot  — 
he  glanced  eagerly  at  those  it  contained,  kissed  his  hand,  and  went  on. 
Ethel's  heart  died  within  her.  It  was  all  over.  She  was  the  neglected,  the 
forgotten  ;  but  while  she  turned  her  face  to  the  other  window  of  the  carriage, 
so  to  hide  its  saddened  expression  from  her  companion,  a  voice,  the  dearest, 
sweetest  voice  she  had  ever  heard,  the  soft  harmonious  voice,  whose  accents 
were  more  melodious  than  music,  asked,  "  Are  you  in  town  ?  have  you  left 
Richmond?"  In  spite  of  herself,  a  smile  mantled  over  her  countenav^e, 
dimpling  it  into  gladness,  and  she  turned  to  see  the  beloved  speaker  who 
had  not  deserted  her  —  who  was  there  ;  she  turned,  but  there  was  no  answer- 
ing glance  of  pleasure  in  the  face  of  Villiers  —  he  looked  grave,  and  bowed, 
as  if  in  this  act  of  courtesy  he  fulfilled  all  of  friendly  interchange  that  was 
expected  of  him,  and  rode  off!     He  was  gone  —  and  seen  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Sure,  when  the  separation  has  been  tried, 
That  we,  who  part  in  love,  shall  meet  again. 

Wordsworth. 

This  little  event  roused  Ethel  to  the  necessity  of  struggling  with  the  sen- 
timent to  which  hitherto  she  had  permitted  unquestioned  power.  There  had 
been  a  kind  of  pleasure  mingled  with  her  pain,  when  she  believed  that  she  suf- 
fered for  her  lover's  sake,  and  in  obedience  to  his  will.  To  love  in  solitude  and 
absence,  was,  she  well  knew,  the  lot  of  many  of  her  sex,  and  all  that  is 
imaginative  and  tender  lends  poetry  to  the  emotion.  But  to  love  without 
return,  her  father  had  taught  her  was  shame  and  folly  —  a  dangerous  and 
undigniil°d  sentiment,  that  leads  many  women  into  acts  of  humiliation  and 
misery.  He  spoke  the  more  warmly  on  this  subject,  because  he  desired  to 
guard  his  daughter  by  every  possible  means  from  a  fate  too  common.  He 
knew  the  sens.bility  and  constancy  of  her  nature.  He  dreaded  to  think 
that  these  should  be  played  upon,  and  that  her  angelic  sweetness  should  be 
sacrificed  at  the  altar  of  hopeless  passion.  That  all  the  powers  he  might 
gift  her  with,  all  the  fortitude  and  all  the  pride  that  he  strove  to  instil,  might 
be  insufficient  to  prevent  this*  one  grand  evil,  he  too  well  knew  ;  but  all  that 
could  should  be  done,  and  his  own  high-souled  Ethel  should  rise  uninjured 
from  the  toils  of  the  snarer,  the  heartless  game  of  the  unfaithful  lover. 

She  steeled  her  heart  against  every  softer  thought,  she  tasked  herself 
each  day  to  devote  her  entire  attention  to  some  absorbing;  employment ;  to 
languages  and  the  composition  of  music,  as  occupations  that  would  not  per- 
mit her  thoughts  to  stray.  She  felt  a  pain  deep-seated  in  her  inmost  heart ; 
but  she  refused  to  acknowledge  it.  When  a  thought,  too  sweet  and  bitter, 
took  perforce  possession  of  the  chambers  of  her  brain,  she  drove  it  out  with 
stern  and  unshaken  resolve.  She  pondered  on  the  best  means  to  subdue 
every  rebel  idea.  She  rose  with  the  sun,  and  passed  much  time  in  the  open 
air,  that  when  night  came,  bodily  fatigue  might  overpower  mental  regrets. 
She  conversed  with  her  aunt  again  about  her  dear  lost  father ;  that,  by  r<> 
newing  images,  so  long  the  only  ones  dear  to  her,  every  subsequent  idea 
might  be  driven  from  the  place  it  had  usurped.  Always  she  was  rewarded 
by  the  sense  of  doing  right,  often  by  really  mitigating  the  anguish  which 
rose  and  went  to  rest  with  her,  and  awakening  her  in  the  morning,  stung 
her  to  renew  her  endeavours,  while  it  whispered  too  audibly,  "  I  am  here." 
She  grew  pale  and  thin,  and  her  eyes  again  resumed  that  lustre  which  spoke 
a  quick  and  agitated  life  within.     Her  endeavours,  by  being  unremitting, 


LODORE.  IIS 

gave  too  much  intensity  to  every  feeling,  and  made  her  live  each  moment  of 
her  existence  a  sensitive,  conscious  life,  wearing  out  her  frame,  and  threat- 
ening, while  it  accelerated  the  pulses,  to  exhaust  betimes  the  animal  func- 
tions. 

She  felt  this ;  and  she  roused  herself  to  contend  afresh  with  her  own 
heart.  As  a  last  resource  she  determined  to  quit  Richmond.  Her  strug- 
gles, and  the  energy  called  into  action  by  her  fortitude,  gave  a  tone  of  supe- 
riority to  her  mind,  which  her  aunt  felt  and  submitted  to.  Now  when  a 
change  of  residence  was  determined  upon,  she  at  once  negatived  the  idea  of 
returning  to  Longneld — yet  whither  else  betake  themselves?  Ethel  no 
longer  concealed  from  herself  that  she  and  the  worthy  spinster  were  solitary 
wanderers  on  earth,  cut  off  from  human  intercourse.  A  bitter  sense  of 
desolation  had  crept  over  her  from  the  moment  that  she  knew  herself  to  be 
deserted  bv  Villiers.  All  that  was  bright  in  her  position  darkened  info 
shadow.  She  shrunk  into  herself  when  she  reflect-'  ',  that  should  the  ground 
at  her  feet  open  and  swallow  her,  not  one  among  her  fellow-creatures  would 
be  sensible  that  the  whole  universe  of  thought  and  feeling,  which  emanated 
from  her  breathing  spirit,  as  water  from  a  living  spring,  was  shrunk  up 
and  strangled  in  a  narrow  voiceless  grave.  A  short  time  before  she  had 
regarded  death  without,  terror,  for  her  father  had  been  its  prey,  and  his  image 
was  often  shadowed  forth  in  her  fancy,  beckoning  her  to  join  him.  Now  it 
had  become  more  difficult  to  die.  "Mature  and  love  were  wedded  in  her 
mind,  and  it  was  a  bitter  pang  for  j  so  young  to  bid  adieu  »  both  for  ever. 
Turning  her  thoughts  from  Vil'  <$,  she  would  have  been  ^iad  to  discover 
any  link  that  might  enchain  hei  to  the  mass.  She  reverted  to  her  mother. 
Her  inexperience,  her  youth,  and  the  timidity  of  her  disposition,  prevented 
flfer  from  making  any  endeavour  to  break  through  the  wall  of  unnatural  sepa- 
ration raised  between  them.  She  could  only  lament.  One  sign,  one  word 
from  Lady  Lodore,  would  have  been  halm  to  her  poor  heart,  and  she  would 
have  met  it  with  feWent  gratitude.,  but  she  feared  to  offend.  She  had  no 
hope  that  any  advance  would  have  been  met  by  other  than  a  disdainful  re- 
pulse ,  and  she  shrunk  from  intruding  herself  on  her  unwilling  parent.  She 
often  wept  to  think  that  there  was  none  near  to  support  and  comfort  her, 
and  yet  that  at  the  distance  of  but  a  few  miles  her  mother  lived  —  whose 
very  name  was  the  source  of  the  dearest,  sweetest,  and  most  cruel  emotions. 
She  thought,  therefore,  of  her  surviving  parent  on'v  to  despair,  and  to  shrink 
with  terror  from  the  mere  possibility  of  an  accidental  meeting. 

She  earnestly  desired  to  leave  England,  which  had  treated  her  with  but 
a  step-mother's  welcome,  and  to  travel  away,  she  knew  not  whither.  Yet 
most  she  wished  to  go  to  Italy.  Her  father  had  often  talked  of  taking  her 
to  that  country,  and  it  was  painted  in  her  eyes  with  the  hues  of  paradise. 
She  spoke  of  her  desire  to  her  aunt,  who  thought  her  mad,  and  believed 
that  it  was  as  easy  to  adventure  to  the  moon,  as  for  two  solitary  women  to 
brave  Alps  and  earthquakes,  banditti  and  volcanoes,  a  savage  people  and 
an  unknown  land.  Still,  even  while  she  trembled  at  the  mere  notion,  she 
felt  that  Eth.pl  might  lead  her  thither  if  she  pleased.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
beneficent  dispensations  of  the  Creator,  that  there  is  nothing  so  attractive 
and  attaching  as  affection.  The  smile  of  an  infant  may  command  absolutely, 
because  its  source  is  in  dependent  love,  and  the  human  heart  for  ever  yearns 
for  such  demonstration  from  another.  What  would  this  strange  world  be 
without  that  "  touch  of  nature  ?"  It  is  to  the  immaterial  universe  what 
light  is  to  the  visible  creation,  scent  to  the  flower,  hue  to  the  rainbow  ;  hope, 
j.oy,  succour,  and  self-forgetfulness,  where  otherwise  all  would  be  swallowed 
up  in  vacant  and  obscure  egotism. 

No  one  could  approach  Ethel  without  feeling  that  she  possessed  an 
irresistible  charm.     The  overflowing  and  trusting  affectionateness  of  her 
nature  was  a  loadstone  to  draw  alt  hearts.     Each  one  felt,  even  without 
2* 


114  LODORE. 

knowing  wherefore,  that  it  was  happiness  to  obey,  to  gratify  her.  Thus 
while  a  journey  to  Italy  filled  Airs.  Elizabeth  with  alarm,  a  consent  hovered 
on  her  lips,  because  she  felt  that  any  risk  was  preferable  to  disappointing  a 
wish  of  her  gentle  niece. 

And  yet  even  then  Ethel  paused.  She  began  to  repent  her  desire  of 
leaving  the  country-inhabited  by  her  dearest  friend.  She  felt  lhat  she  should 
have  an  uncongenial  companion  in  her  aunt —  the  child  of  the  wilderness 
and  the  good  lady  of  Longfield,  were  like  a  living  and  dead  body  in  con- 
junction—  the  one  inquiring,  eager,  enthusiastic  even  in  her  contemplative- 
ness,  sensitively  awake  to  every  passing  object ;  while  the  otner  dozed  her 
hours  awajr,  and  fancied  that  pitfalls  and  wild  beasts  menaced  her,  if  she 
dared  step  one  inch  from  the  beaten  way. 

At  this  moment,  while  embarrassed  by  the  very  yielding  to  her  desires, 
and  experiencing  a  lingering  sad  regret  for  all  that  she  was  about  to  leave 
behind,  Ethel  received  a  letter  from  Villiers.  Her  heait  beat,  and  her 
fingers  trembled,  when  first  she  saw,  as  now  she  held  a  paper,  which  might 
be  every  thing,  yet  might  be  nothing  to  her;  she  opened  it  at  last,  and 
forced  herself  to  consider  and  understand  its  contents.  It  was  as  follows  :  — 

"  Dear  Miss  Fitzhenry, 
"  "Will  your  aunt  receive  me  with  her  wonted  kindness  when  I  call  to- 
morrow ?     I  fear  to  have  offended  by  an  appearance  of  neglect,  while  my 
heart  has  never  been  absent  from  Richmond.     Plead  my  cause,  I  entreat 
you.     1  leave  it  in  your  hands. 

"  Ever  and  ever  yours, 
"  Grosvenor  Square,  Saturday.  "  Edward  Villiers. 

0 

"  Dearest  Ethel,  have  you  guessed  at  my  sufferings  ?  Shall  you  hail 
with  half  the  joy  that  I  do,  a  change  which  enables  vou  to  revoke  the  de- 
cree of  absence  so  galling  at  least  to  one  of  us  ?  "if  indeed  you  have 
not  forgotten  me,  I  shall  be  rewarded  for  the  wretchedness  of  these  last 
weeks. ' 

Ethel  kissed  the  letter,  and  placed  it  near  her  heart.  A  calm  joy  diffused 
itself  over  her  mind  ;  and  that  she  could  indeed  trust  and  believe  in  him 
she  loved,  was  the  source  of  a  grateful  delight  more  medicinal  than  all  the 
balmy  winds  of  Italy,  and  its  promised  pleasures. 

"When  Villiers  had  last  quitted  Richmond,  he  had  resolved  not  to  expose 
himself  again  to  the  influence  of  Ethel.  It  was  necessary  that  they  should 
be  divided  —  how  far  better  that  they  should  never  meet  again  !  He  was 
not  worthy  of  her.  Another,  more  fortunate,  would  replace  him,  if  he  sacri- 
ficed his  own  selfish  feelings,  and  determinatelv  absented  himself  from  her. 
As  if  to  confirm  his  view  of  their  mutual  interest,  his  elder  cousin,  Mr. 
Saville,  had  just  offered  his  hand  to  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  earl,  and  had 
been  accepted.  Villiers  took  refuge  from  his  anxious  thoughts  among  his 
pretty  cousins,  sisters  of  the  bridegroom,  and  with  them  the  discussion  of 
estates,  settlements,  princely  mansions,  and  equipages,  was  the  order  of 
the  day.  Edward  sickened  to  reflect  how  opposite  would  be  the  prospect 
if  his  marriage  with  Ethel  were  in  contemplation.  It  was  not  that  a  noble 
establishment  would  be  exchanged  for  a  modest,  humble  dwelling — he 
loved  with  sufficient  truth  to  feel  that  happiness  witn  Ethel  transcended  the 
wealth  of  the  woild.  It  was  the  absolute  penury,  the  debt,  the  care,  that 
haunted  him,  and  made  such  miserable  contrast  with  the  tens  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  that  were  the  subject  of  discussion  on  the  present  occasion. 
His  resolution  not  to  entangle  Ethel  in  this  wilderness  of  ills  gained  strength 
by  every  chance  word  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  those  around  him  ;  and  the 
image,  before  so  vivid,  of  her  home  at  Richmond,  which  he  might  at  each 


LODORE.  115 

hour  enter,  of  her  dear  face,  which  at  any  minute  might  again  bless  his 
sight,  faded  into  a  far-off  vision  of  paradise,  from  which  he  was  banished 
for  ever. 

For  a  time  he  persevered  in  his  purpose,  if  not  with  ease,  yet  with  less  of 
struggle  than  he  himsetf  anticipated.  That  he  could  at  any  hour  break  the 
self-eaacted  law,  and  Behold  Ethel,  enabled  him  day  after  day  to  continue 
to  obey  it.  and  to  submit  to  the  decree  of  banishment  he  had  passed  upon 
biinSelf.  He  loved  his  pretty  cousin-,  and  their  kindness  and  friendship 
soothed  him  :  he  spent  his  days  with  them  ;  and  the  familiar,  sisterly  inter- 
course, hallowed  by  Ions;  association,  and  made  tender  by  the  grace  and 
sweetness  of  these  good  girls,  compensated  somewhat  for  the  absence  of 
deeper  interest.  They  talked  of  Horatio  also,  and  that  was  a  more  touch- 
in  r  string  than  all.  The  almost  worship,  joined  to  pity  and  fear  for  him, 
with  which  Edward  regarded  his  cousin,  made  him  cling  fondly  to  those  so 
closely  related  to  hirn,  and  who  sympathized  with,  and  shared,  his  enthusi- 
astic affection. 

This  stat 5  of  half  indifference  did  not  last  long.  His  meeting  with  Ethel 
in  Hyde  Park  operated  an  entire  change.  He  had  seen  her  face  but  a 
moment —  her  dear  face,  animated  with  pleasure  at  beholding  him,  and 
adorned  with  more  than  her  usual  loveliness.  He  hurried  away,  but  the 
ima^e  still  pursued  him.  All  at  once  the  world  around  grew  dark  and 
blink.;  at  every  instant  his  hea  t  asked  for  Ethel.  He  thirsted  for  the 
sweet  delight  of  sazing  on  her  soft  lustrous  eyes,  touching  her  hand,  listen- 
ing to  her  voice,  whose  tones  were  so  familiar  and  beloved.  He  avoided 
his  cousins  to  hide  his  regrets  ;  he  sought  solitude,  to  commune  with 
memory  ;  and  the  intense  desire  kindled  within  him  to  return  to  her,  was 
all  but  irresistible.  He  had  received  a  letter  from  Horace  Saville,  entreating 
him  to  join  him  at  Naples  ;  he  had  contemplated  complying,  as  a  means  of 
obtaining  forgetfulness.  Should  he  not,  on  the  contrary,  make  this  visit 
with  Ethel  for  his  companion  ?  It  was  a  picture  of  happiness  most  enticing ; 
and  then  he  recollected  with  a  pang  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  quit 
England  ;  that  it  was  only  by  being  on  the  spot,  that  he  obtained  the 
supplies  necessary  for  his  existence.  With  bitterness  of  spirit  he  recognised 
once  a^ain  his  state  of  beggary,  and  the  hopelessness  that  attended  on  all 
his  wishes. 

All  at  once  he  was  su-prised  by  a  message  from  his  father,  through  Lord 
Mnristow.  He  was  told  of  Colonel  Villiers's  intended  marriage  with  the 
only  daughter  of  a  wealthy  commoner,  which  yet  could  not  be  arranged 
without  the  concurrence  of  Edward,  or  rather  without  sacrifices  on  his  part 
for  the  making  of  settlements.  The  entire  payment  of  his  debts,  and  the 
promise  of  fifteen  hundred  a  year  for  the  future,  were  the  bribes  offered  to 
in  luce  him  to  consent.  Edward  at  once  notified  his  compliance.  He  saw 
the  hour  of  freedom  at  hand,  and  the  present  was  too  full  of  interest,  too 
pregnant  with  misery  or  happiness,  to  allow  the  injury  done  to  his  future 
prospects  to  weigh  with  him  for  a  moment.  Thus  he  might  purchase  his 
union  with  Ethel  — claim  her  for  his  own.  With  the  thought,  a  whole  tide 
of  t°nderness  and  joy  poured  quick  and  warm  into  his  heart,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  he  hid  never  loved  so  devotedly  as  now.  How  false  an  illusion  had 
blinled  him  !  he  fancied  that  he  had  banished  hope,  while  indeed  his  soul 
was  wedded  to  her  ima^e,  and  the  very  struggle  to  free  himself,  had  served 
to  m  tke  the  thought  of  her  more  peremptory  and  indelible. 

With  these  thoughts,  he  again  presented  himself  at  Richmond.  He 
asked  Mrs.  Fitzhenry's  consent  to  address  her  niece,  and  became  the  ac- 
cepted lover  of  Ethel.  The  meeting  of  their  two  young  hearts  in  the  secu- 
rity of  an  avowed  attachment,  after  so  many  hours  wasted  in  despondency 
and  painful  stru^odes,  did  not  visit  the  fair  girl  with  emotions  of  burning 
transport:  she  felt  it  rather  Idee  a  return  to  a  natural  state  of  things,  after 


116  LODORE. 

unnatural  deprivation,  —  as  if,  a  young  nestling,  she  had  been  driven  from 
her  mother's  side,  and  was  now  restored  to  the  dear  fosterage  of  her  care. 
She  delivered  herself  up  to  a  calm  reliance  upon  the  future,  and  saw  in 
the  interweaving  of  duty  and  affection,  the  fulfilment-  of  her  destiny,  and 
the  confirmation  of  her  earthly  happiness.  The^were  to  be  joined  never 
to  part  more  !  While  each  breathed  the  breath  of  life,  no  power  could 
sever  them;  health  or  sickness,  prosperity  or  adversity  —  these  b^amc 
m<re  words;  her  health  and  her  riches  were  garnered  in  his  hea™  and 
while  she  bestowed  the  treasures  of  her  affection  upon  him,  could  he  be 
poor  ?  It  was  not  therefore  to  be  her  odious  part  to  crush  the  first  and 
single  attachment  of  her  soul  —  to  tear  at  once  the  "  painted  veil  of  life,1' 
delivering  herself  up  to  cheerless  realities  —  to  know  that,  to  do  right,  she 
must  banish  from  her  recollection  those  inward-spoken  vows  which  she 
should  deem  herself  of  a  base  inconstant  disposition  ever  to  forget.  It 
was  not  reserved  for  her  to  pass  joyless  years  of  solitude,  reconciling  her- 
self to  the  necessity  of  divorcing  her  dearest  thoughts  from  their  wedded 
ima«:e.  The  serene  and  fair-showing  home  she  coveted  was  open  before 
her  —  she  might  pass  within  its  threshold,  and  listen  to  the  closing  of  the 
doors  behind,  as  they  shut  out  the  world  from  her,  with  pvie  and  unalloyed 
delight. 

Ethel  was  very  young,  yet  in  youth  such  feelings  are  warmer  in  our 
hearts  than  in  after  years.  We  do  not  know  then  that  we  can  ever  change  ; 
or  that,  snake-like,  casting  the  skin  of  an  old,  care-worn  habit,  a  new  one 
will  <  ome  fresh  and  bright,  in  seeming,  as  the  one  before  had  been,  at  the 
hour  of  its  birth.  We  fancy  then,  that  if  our  present  and  first  hope  is  dis- 
appointed, our  lives  are  a  mere  blank,  not  worth  a  "  pin's  fee  ;"  the  single- 
ness of  our  hearts  has  not  been  split  into  the  million  hair-like  differences, 
which,  woven  by  time  into  one  texture,  clothe  us  in  prudence  as  with  a 
garment.  We  are  as  if  exposed  naked  to  the  action  of  passions  and 
events,  and  receive  their  influence  with  keen  and  fearful  sensitiveness. 
Ethel  scarcely  heard,  and  did  not  listen  to  nor  understand,  the  change  of 
circumstances  that  brought  Villiers  back  to  her  —  she  only  knew,  that 
ne  was  confirmed  her  own.  Satisfied  with  this  delightful  conclusion  to 
her  sufferings,  she  placed  her  destiny  in  his  hands,  without  fear  or  ques- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  thought  her  niece  very  young  to  marry  ;  but  Villiers,  who 
had,  while  hesijtating,  done  his  best  to  hide  his  sweet  Ethel  away  from 
every  inquisitive  eye,  now  that  she  was  to  be  his  own,  hastened  to  introduce 
Lord  Maristow  (Lady  Maristow  had  died  two  years  before)  to  her,  and  to 
bring  her  among  his  cousins,  whom  he  regarded  as  sisters.  The  change 
was  complete  and  overwhelming  to  the  fair  recluses.  Where  before  they 
lived  in  perpetual  tete-a-tete,  or  separated  but  to  be  alone,  they  were  now 
plunged  into  what  appeared  to  them  a  crowd.  Sophia,  Harriet,  and  Lucy 
Saville,  were  high-born,  high-bred,  and  elegant  girls,  accustomed  to  what 
they  called  the  quiet  of  domestic  life,  amidst  a  thousand  relations  and  ten 
thousand  acquaintances.  No  female  relative  had  stepped  into  their  mother's 
place,  and  they  were  peculiarly  independent  and  high-spirited;  they  had 
always  lived  in  what  they  called  the  world,  and  knew  nothing  but  what 
that  world  contained.  Their  manners  were  easy,  their  tempers  equable 
and  affectionate.  If  their  dispositions  were  not  all  .exactly  alike,  they 
had  a  family  resemblance  that,  drew  them  habitually  near  each  other.  They 
received  Ethel  among  their  number  with  cordiality,  bestowing  on  her  every 
attention  which  politeness  and  kindness  dictated.  Yet  Ethel  felt  some- 
what as  a  wild  antelope  among  tame  ones.  Their  language,  the  topics  of 
their  discourse,  their  very  occupations,  were  all  new  to  her.  She  lent  her- 
self to  their  customs  with  smiles  and  sweetness,  but  her  eye  brightened 
when  Edward  came,  and  she  often  unconsciously  retreated  to  his  side  as  a 


LODORE.  117 

shelter  and  a  refuge.  Edward's  avocations  had  been  as  worldly  perhaps  as 
those  of  his  pretty  cousins  ;  but  a  man  is  more  thrown  upon  the  reality  of 
life,  while  girls  live  altogether  in  a  factitious  state.  He  had  travelled  much, 
and  seen  all  sorts  of  people.  Besides,  between  him  and  Ethel  there  was 
that  mute  language  which  will  make  those  of  opposite  sexes  intelligible  to 
one  another,  even  when  literally  not  understanding  each  other's  dialect. 
Vi'liers  found  no  deficiency  of  intelligence  or  sympathy  in  Ethel,  while  the 
fashionable  girls  to  whom  he  had  introduced  her  fett  a  little  at  a  loss  how  to 
entertain  the  stranger.     .  \ 

Lord  Maristow  and  his  family  had  been  detained  nk  town  till  after  Mr. 
Saville's  marriage,  and  were  now  very  eager  to  leave%.  They  remained 
out  of  compliment  to  Edward,  and  looked  forward  impatiently  to  his  wed- 
ding as  the  event  that  would  set  them  free.  London  was  empty,  the  shoot- 
ing season  had  begun-;  yet  still  he  was  delayed  by  his  father.  He  W'shed 
to  sign  the  necessary  papers,  and  free  himself  from  all  business,  that  he  and 
his  bride  might  immediately  join  Horatio  at  Naples.  Yet  still  Colonel 
Villi ers's  marriage  was  delayed  ;  till  at  last  he  intimated  to  his  son,  that  it 
was  postponed,  for  the  present,  and  begged  that  he  would  not  remain  in 
England  on  his  account. 

Edward  was  somewhat  staggered  by  this  intelligence.  Yet  as  the  letter 
that,  communicated  it  contained  a  considerable  remittance,  he  quieted  him- 
self. To  give  up  Ethel  now  was  a  thought  that  did  not  for  a  moment  enter 
his  mind  ;  it  was  but.  the  reflection  of  the  difficulties  that  would  surround 
them,  if  his  prospects  failed,  that  for  a  "few  seconds  clouded  his  brow  with 
care.  But  it  was  his  nature  usually  to  hope  the  best,  and  to  trust  to  fortune. 
He  had  never  been  so  prudent  as  with  regard  to  his  marriage  with  Ethei ; 
but  that  was  for  her  sake.  This  consideration  could  not  again  enter;  for, 
like  her,  he  would,  under  the  near  hope  of  making  her  his,  have  preferred 
the  wilds  of  the  Illinois,  with  her  for  his  wife,  to  the  position  of  the  richest 
English  nobleman,  deprived  of  such  a  companion.  His  heart,  delivered  up 
to  love,  was  complete  in  its  devotion  and  tenderness.  He  was  already 
wedded  to  her  in  soul,  and  would  sooner  have  severed  hh  right  arm  from 
his  body,  than  voluntarily  have  divided  himself  from  this  dearer  part  of 
himself — this  "  other  half,"  towards  whom  he  felt  as  if  literally  he  had,  to 
give  her  being, 

"  Lent 

Out  of  his  side  to  her,  nearest  his  heart; 

Substantial  life  to  have  her  by  his  side, 

Henceforth  an  individual  solace  dear." 

With  these  feelings,  an  early  day  was  urged  and  named  ;  and,  drawing 
near,  Ethel  was  soon  to  become  a  bride.  On  first  making  his  offer,  Villiers 
had  written  to  Lady  Lodore  ;  and  Mrs.  Fitzhenry,  much  against  her  will, 
bv  the  advice  of  her  solicitor,  did  the  same.  Lady  Lodore  was  in  Scotland. 
No  ans%ver  came.  The  promised  day  approached  ;  but  still  she  preserved 
this  silence  :  it  became  necessary  to  proceed  without  her  consent.  Banns 
were  published  ;  and  Ethel  became  the  wife  of  Villier3  on  the  25th  of  Oc- 
tober. Lord  Maristow  hastened  down  to  his  castle  to  kill  pReasants  : 
while,  on  her  part,  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  took  her  solitary  way  to  Longfield,  half 
consoled  for  separating  from  Ethel,  by  this  return  to  the  habits  of  more  than 
sixty  years.  In  vain  had  London  or  Richmond  wooed  her  stay ;  in  vain 
was  she  pressed  to  pay  a  visit  to  Maristow  Castle :  to  return  to  her  home 
was  a  more  enticing  prospect.  Her  good  old  heart  danced  within  her  when 
she  first  perceived  the  village  steeple  ;  the  chimnies  of  her  own  house  made 
tears  spring;  into  her  eyes;  and  when,  indeed,  she  found  herself  by  the  fa- 
miliar hearth,  in  the  accustomed  arm-chair,  and  her  attentive  housekeeper 


113  •  LODOilE. 

came  to  ask  if  she  would  not  take  any  thing  after  her  journey,  it  seemed 
to  her  as  if  all  the  delights  of  life  were  summed  up  in  this  welcome  return 
to  monotony  and  silence. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Let  mo 
Awake  your  love  to  my  uncomforted  brother. 

Old  Play. 

Meanwhile  Villiers  and  his  bride  proceeded  on  their  way  to  Naples. 
It  mattered  little  to  Ethel  whither  they  were  going,  or  to  whom.  Edward 
was  all  in  all  to  her  ;  and  the  vehicle  that  bore  them  along  in  their  journey 
was  a  complete  and  perfect  world,  containing  all  that  her  heart  desired. 
They  avoided  large  towns,  and  every  place  where  there  was  any  chance  of 
meeting  an  acquaintance.  They  passed  up  the  Rhine,  and  Ethel  often 
imaged  forth,  in  her  fancy,  a  dear  home  in  a  secluded  nook  ;  and  longed 
to  remain  there  cut  off  from  the  world  for  ever.  She  had  no  thought  but 
for  her  husband,  and  gratitude  to  Heaven  for  the  happiness  showered  on 
her.  Her  soul  might  have  boon  laid  bare,  each  faculty  examined,  each  idea 
sifted,  and  one  spirit,  one  sentiment,  one  love,  would  have  been  found  per- 
vading and  uniting  them  all.  The  heart  of^  man  is  seldom  as  single  and 
devoted  as  that  of  a  woman.  In  the  present  instance,  it  was  natural  that 
Edward  should  not  be  so  absolutely  given  up  to  one  thought  as  was  his 
bride.  Ethel's  affections  had  never  been  called  forth  except  by  her  father, 
and  by  him  who  was  now  her  husband.  When  it  has  been  said,  that  she 
thought  of  heaven  to  hallow  and  bless  her  happiness,  it  must  be  understood 
that  the  dead  made  a  part  of  that  heaven,  to  which  she  turned  her  eyes  with 
such  sweet  thankfulness.  She  was  constant  to  the  first  affection  of  her 
heart.  She  might  be  said  to  live  perpetually  in  thought  beside  her  father's 
grave.  Before  she  had  wept  and  sorrowed  near  it ;  now  she  placed  the 
home  of  her  happy  married  life  close  to  the  sacred  earth,  and  fancied  that 
its  mute  inhabitant  was  the  guardian  angel  to  watch  over  and  preserve  her. 

Villiers  had  lived  among  many  friends,  and  was  warmly  attached  to 
several.  His  cousin  Horatio  was  dearer  to  him  than  any  thing  had  ever 
been,  till  he  knew  Ethel.  Even  now  he  revered  hifn  more,  and  felt  a  kind 
of  duteous  attachment  drawing  him  towards  him.  He  wanted  Horatio  to 
see  and  approve  of  Ethel :  —  not  that  he  doubted  what  his  opinion  of  her 
would  be  ;  but  the  delight  which  his  own  adoration  of  her  excellence  im- 
parted to  him  would  be  doubled,  when  he  caw  it  shared  and  confirmed  by 
his  friend.  Besides  this,  he  was  anxious  to  see  Horace  on  his  own  account. 
He  wished  to  know  whether  he  was  happy  in  his  marriage  ;  whether 
Clorinda-were  worthy  of  him  ;  and  if  Lady  Lodore  were  entirely  forgotten. 
As  th?y  advanced  on  their  journey,  his  desire  to  see  his  cousin  bec'ame 
more  and  more  present  to  his  mind  ;  and  he  talked  of  him  to  Ethel,  and 
imported  to  her  a  portion  of  his  fervent  and  affectionate  feelings. 

Entering  Switzerland,  they  came  into  a  world  of  snow.  Here  and  there, 
on  the  southern  side  of  a  mountain,  a  lawny  upland  might  disclose  itself  in 
summer  verdure  ;  and  the  brawling  torrents,  increased  by  the  rains,  were 
not  yet  made  silent  by  frost.  Edward  had  visited  these  scenes  before  ;  and 
he  couM  act  the  guide  to  his  enraptured  Ethel,  who  remembered  her  father's 
olowincr  descriptions  ;  and  while  she  gazed  with  breathless  admiration, 
saw  his  step  among  the  hills,  and  thought  that  his  eye  had  rested  on  the 


LCDORE.  119 

Wonders  she  ncrw  beheld.  Soon  the  mountains,  the  sky-seeking  "pa'aces 
of  nature,"  were  passed,  and  they  entered  fair,  joyous  Italy.  At  each  step 
they  left  winter  far  behind.  Ethel  would  willingly  have  lin  j;ered  in  Florence 
and  Roue;  but  once  south  of  the  Apennines,  El  ward  was  eager  to  reach 
Naples  ;  and  the  letters  he  got  from  Saville  Spurred  him  on  to  yet  greater 
speed. 

Before  leaving  England,  Lucy  Saville  had  said  to  Ethel,  —  "You  are 
how  taking  our  other  comfort  from  us  ;  and  what  we  are  to  do  without 
either  Horatio  or  Edward,  I  am  unable  to  conjecture.  We  shall  be  like  a 
house  without  its  props.  Divided,  they  are  not  either  of  them  half  what 
they  were  joined.  Horace  is  so  prudent,  so  wise,  so  considerate,  so  sym- 
pathizing; Edward  so  active  and  so  kind-hearted.  In  any  difficulty,  we 
always  asked  Horace  what  we  ought  to  do ;  and  Edward  did  the  thing 
which  he  pointed  out. 

"  Horatio  s  marriage  was  a  sad  blow  to  us  all.  You  will  bring  Edward 
back  and  we  shall  be  the  happier  for  your  being  with  him  ;  but  shall  we 
ever  see  our  brother  again  i  —  or  shall  we  only  see  him  to  lament  the 
change?  Not  that  he  can  ever  really  alter:  his  heart,  his  understanding, 
his  goodness,  are  as  firm  as  rock  ;  but  there  is  that  about  him  which  makes 
him  too  much  the  slave  of  those  he  is  in  immediate  contact  with.  He  ab- 
hors strife  ;  the  slightest  disunion  is  mortal  to  him.  He  is  not  of  this  world. 
Pure-minded  as  a  woman,  honourable  as  a  ^ night  of  old,  he  is  more  like  a 
being  we  real  >f,  and  his  match  is  not  to  be  bund  upon  earth.  Horatio 
never  loved  but  once,  and  his  attachment  was  unfortu  i.ate.     He  loved  Eady 

"    Here  recollection  dyed  Miss  Saville's  cheeks  with  crimson:  she 

had  forgotten  that  Lady  Lodore  was  the  mother  of  Ethel.  After  a  mo  nent's 
hesitation  she  rontinued  :  --  f  have  no  rgnt  to  betray  the  secrets  of  others, 
Horace  was  a  discarded  lover  ;  and  he  was  forced  to  des  ise  the  lady 
wrto  n  he  had  imagined  possessed  of  every  excellence.  For  the  first  time 
he  was  absorbed  in  what  may  be  termed  a  selfish  sentiment.  He  could 
not  bear  to  see  any  of  us  :  he  fled  even  from  Edward,  and  wandering  away, 
we  heard  at  last  that  he  was  at  Naples,  whither  he  had  gone  quite  uncon 
scious  of  the  spot  of  earth  to  which  he  was  bending  his  steps.  The  first 
letter  we  got  fro  n  him  was  dated  from  that  place.  His  letter  was  to  me ; 
for  I  a  n  his  favourite  sister  ;  and  God  knows  my  devoted  affection,  my 
Wors  lip  of  him,  deserves  this  preference.  You  shall  read  it ;  it  is  the  most 
perfect  specimen  of  enthusiastic  and  heart-moving  eloquence  ever  penned. 
He  had  been  as  in  a  trance,  and  awoke  again  to  life  as  he  looked  down 
fro  n  Pausilippo  on  the  bay  of  Naples.  The  attachment  to  one  earthly  ob- 
ject, which  preyed  on  his  being,  was  suddenly  merged  in  one  universal  love 
and  adoration.  He  saw  that  the  '  creation  was  good  ;"  he  purged  his  heart 
at  once  of  the  black  spot  which  had  blotted  and  marred  its  beauty ;  and 
opened  his  whole  soul  to  pure,  elevated,  heavenly  love.  I  tamely  quote  his 
burning  and  transparent  expressions,  through  which  you  may  discern,  as 
in  a  glass,  the  glorious  excellence  of  his  soul. 

"Bat,  alis  !  this  state  of  holv  excitement  could  not  endure  ;  something 
hu  nan  will  still  creep  in  to  mingle  with  and  sully  our  noblest  aspirations. 
Horatio  was  taken  by  an  acquaii  tance  to  see  a  beautiful  girl  at  a  convent ; 
in  a  fatal  mommt  an  English  lady  said  to  him,  'Come,  and  I  will  show  you 
what  perfect  beauty  is  :'  and  those  words  decided  my  poor  brother's  destiny. 
Of  course  I  only  know  our  new  sister  through  his  letters.  He  told  us  that 
Cloinda  was  shut  up  in  this  convent  through  the  heartless  vanity  of  her 
mother,  who  dreaded  her  as  a  rival,  to  wait  there  till  her  parents  should  find 
so  ne  suitible  match,  which  she  must  instantly  accept,  or  be  doomed  to 
seclusion  for  ever.  In  his  younger  days  Horace  had  paid,  '  I  am  in  love 
with  an  idea,  and  therefore  women  have  no  power  over  in".'  But  the  time 
came  when  his  heart  was  to  be  the  dupe  of  his  imagination  —  so  was  it 


120  LODORE. 

with  his  first  love  — so  now,  I  fear,  did  he  deceive  himself  with  regard  to 
Clorinda.  He  declared  indeed  that  his  love  for  her  was  not  an  absorbing 
passion  like  his  first,  but  a  mingling  of  pity,  admiration,  and  that  tenderness 
which  his  warm  heart  was  ever  ready  to  bestow.  He  described  her  as  full 
of  genius  and  sensibility,  a  creature  of  fire  and  power,  but  dimmed  by 
sorrow,  and  struggling  with  her  chains.  He  visited  her  again  ;  he  tried  to 
comfort,  he  offered  to  serve  her.  It  was  the  first  time  that  a  manly,  gener- 
ous spirit  had  ever  presented  itself  to  the  desponding  girl.  The  high- 
souled  Englishman  appeared  as  a  god  beside  ner  sordid  countrymen  ;  in- 
deed, Horatio  would  have  seemed  such  compared  with  any  of  his  sex  ;  his 
fascination  is  irresistible  —  Clorinda  felt  it ;  she  loved  him  with  Italian  fer- 
vour, and  the  first  word  of  kindness  from  him  elicited  a  whole  torrent  of 
gratitude  and  passion. 

Horace  had  no  wish  to  marry  ;  his  old  wound  was  by  no  means  healed, 
but  rather  open,  and  bled  afresh,  when  he  was  called  upon  to  answer  the 
enthusiastic  ardour  of  the  Italian  girl.  He  felt  at  once  the  difference  of 
his  feeling  for  her,  and  the  engrossing  sentiment  of  which  he  had  been  nearly 
the  victim.  But  he  could  rescue  her  from  an  unworthy  fate,  and  make  her 
happy.  He  acted  with  his  usual  determination  and  precipitancy,  and  within 
a  month  she  became  his  wife.  Here  ends  my  story  ;  his  letters  were  more 
concise  after  his  marriage.  At  first  I  attributed  this  to  his  having  a  new  and 
dearer  friend,  but  latterly  when  he  has  written  he  has  spoken  with  such  yearn- 
ing fondness  for  home,  that  I  fear  —  And  then  when  I  offered  to  visit  him,  he 
negatived  my  proposition.  How  unlike  JHoratio  !  it  can  only  mean  that  his 
wife  was  averse  to  my  coming.  I  have  questioned  slightly  any  travellers 
from  Italy.  Mrs.  Saville  seldom  appears  in  English  society,  except  at  balls, 
and  then  she  is  always  surrounded  by  Italians.  She  is  decidedly  correct 
in  her  conduct,  but  more  I  cannot  tell.  Her  letters  to  us  are  beautifully 
written,  and  of  her  talents,  even  her  genius,  I  do  not  entertain  a  doubt. 
Perhaps  I  am  prejudiced,  but  I  fear  a  Neapolitan,  or  rather,  1  should  say, 
I  fear  a  convent  education  ;  and  that  taste  which  leads  her  to  associate  with 
her  own  demonstrative,  unrefined  countrymen,  instead  of  trying  To  link  her- 
self to  her  husband's  friends.  I  may  be  wrong —  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  found 
so.  Will  you  tell  me  whether  I  am  ?  I  rather  ask  you  than  Edward,  because 
your  feminine  eyes  will  discern  the  truth  of  these  things  quicker  than  he. 
Happy  girl!  you  are  going  to  see  Horatio  —  to  find  a  new,  gifted,  fond 
friend  ;  one  as  superior  to  his  fellow-creatures,  as  perfection  is  superior  to 
frailty."      , 

This  account,  remembered  with  more  interest  now  that  she  approached 
the  subject  of  it,  excited  Ethel's  curiosity,  and  she  began,  as  they  went  on 
their  way  from  Rome  to  Naples,  in  a  great  degree  to  participate  in  Edward's 
eagerness  to  see  his  cousin. 


LODORE.  121 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Sad  and  troubled* 
How  brave  her  an=rer  shows  !  How  it  sets  off 
Her  natural  beauty  1  Under  what  happy  star 
Wa-<  Virolet  born,  to  be  beloved  and  sought 
By  two  incomparable  womeaf 

Fletcher. 

It  was  the  month  of  December  when  the  travellers  arrived  at  this  "  piece 
(^heaven  dropt  upon  earth,"  as  the  natives  themselves  name  it.  The  moon 
foung  a  glowing  orb  in  the  heavens,  and  lighted  up  the  sea  to -beauty.  A 
blood-red  flash  shot  up  now  and  then  from  Vesuvius  ;  a  summer  softness 
was  in  the  atmosphere,  while  a  thousand  tokens  presented  themselves  of  a 
climate  more  friendly,  more  joyous,  and  more  redundant  than  that  of  the 
northern  isle  from  which  they  came.  It  was  verV  late  at  night  when  they 
reached  their  hotel  and  they  were  heartily  fatigued,  so  that  it  was  not  till  the 
next  morning,  that,  immediately  after  breakfast,  Villiers  left  Ethel,  and  went 
out  to  seek  the  abode  of  his  cousin. 

He  had  been  gone  some  little  time,  when  a  waiter  of  the  hotel,  throwing 
open  Ethel's  drawing-room  door,  announced  "  Signor  Orazio."    Gluite  new 
to  Italy,  Ethel   was  ignorant  of  the  custom  in  that  country  of  designating 
people  by  their  Christian  names  ;  and  that  Horatio  Saville,  being  a  resident 
in  Naples,  and  married  to  a  Neapolitan,  was  known  everywhere  by  the 
appellation  which  the  servant  now  used.   Ethel  was  not  in  the  least  aware 
that  it  was  Lucy's  brother  who  presented  himself  to  her.     She  saw  a  gen- 
tleman, tall,  very  slight  in  person,  with  a  face  denoting  habitual  thought- 
fulness,  and  stamped  by  an  individuality  which  she  could  not  tell  whether 
to  think  plain,  an  I  yet  it  Was  certainly  open  and  kind.     An  appearance 
of  extreme  shyness,  almost  amounting  to  awkwardness,  was  diffused  over 
him,  and  his  words  came  hesitatingly  ;  he  spoke  English,  and  was  ar 
Englishman — so  much  Ethel  discovered  by  his  first  words,  which  were, 
"  Villiers  is  not  at  home  ?"  and  then  he  began  to  ask  her  about  her  journey, 
and  how  she  liked  the  view  of  the  bay  of  Naples,  which  she  beheld  from 
her  windows.     They  were  in  this  kind  of  trivial  conversation  when  Ed- 
ward came  bounding  up-stairs,  and  with  exclamations  of  delight  greeted 
his  cousin.    Ethel,  infinitely  surprised,  examined  her  guest  with  more  care. 
In  a  few  minutes  she  began  to  wonder  how  she  came  to  think  him  plain. 
His  deep-set,  dark- gray  eyes  struck  her  as  expressive,  if  not  handsome.  His 
features  were  delicately  moulded,  and  his  fine  forehead  betokened  depth 
of  intellect ;  but  the  charm  of  his  face  was  a  kind  of  fitful,  beamy,  incon- 
stant smile,  which  diffused  incomparable  sweetness  over  his  physiognomy. 
His  U3uxl  look  was  cold  and  abstracted  —  his  eye  speculated    with  an 
inward  thoughtfulness  —  a  chilling  seriousness  sat  on  his  features,  but  this 
glancing  and  varying  half-smile  came  to  dispel  gloom,  and  to  invite  and 
please  those  with  whom  he  conversed.     His  voice  was  modulated  by  feel- 
ing, t*s  language  was  fluent,  graceful  in  its  turns  of  expression,  and  origi- 
nal in  the  thoughts  which  it  expressed.     His  manners  were  marked  by 
high  breeding,  yet  they  were  peculiar.   They  were  formed  by  his  individual 
disposition,  and  under  the  dominion  of  sensibility.    Hence  they  were  often 
abrupt  and  reserved.     He  forgot  the  world  around  him,  and  gave  token, 
by  absence  of  mind,  of  the  absorbing  nature  of  his  contemplations.   But  at 
a  touch  this  vanished,  and  a  sweet  earnestness,  and  a  beaming  kindliness 
of  spirit,  at  once  displaced  his  abstraction,  rendering  him  attentive,  cordial, 
and  gay. 

33—3 


122  LODORE. 

Never  had  Horatio  Sayvfle  appeared  to  so  little  advantage  as  dining  his 
short  Ute-a-lite  with  his  new  relative.  At  all  times,  when  quiescent,  he 
had  a  retiring  manner,  ana  an  appeaiance,  whose  want  of  pretension  did) 
not  at  first  allure,  and  yet  which  afterwards  formed  his  greatest  attraction. 
He  was  always  unembarrassed,  and  Ethel  could  not  guess  that  towards 
her  alone  he  felt  as  tim-id  and  shy  as  a  girl.  It  was  with  considerable 
effect  that  Horatio  had  commanded  himself  to  appear  before  the  daughter 
of  Lady  Lodore.  There  was  something  incongruous  and  inconceivable 
in  the  idea  of  the  child  of  Cornelia,  a  woman,  married  to  his  cousin.  He 
feared  to  see  in  her  an  image  of  the  being  who  had  subdued  his  heart  of 
hearts,  and  laid  prostrate  his  whole  soul ;  he  trembled  to  catch  the  sound 
of  her  voice,  lest  it  might  echo  tones  which  could  disturb  to  their  depjlis 
his  inmost  thoughts.  Ethel  was  so  unlike  her  mother,  that  by  degrees  he 
became  reassured  ;  her  eyes-,  her  hair,  her  stature,  and  tall  slender  shape, 
were  the  reverse  of  Lady  Lodore  ;  so  that  in  a  little  while  he  ventured  to 
raise  his  eyes  to  her  face,  and  to  listen  to  her,  without  being  preoccupied 
by  a  painful  sensation,  which,  in  its  violence,  resembled  terror.  ]t  is  true 
that  by  degrees  this  dissimilarity  to  her  mother  became  less;  she  had  ges- 
tures, smiles,  and  tones,  that  were  all  Lady  Lodore,  and  which,  when  dis- 
cerned, struck  his  heart  with  a  pang,  stealing  away  his  voice,  and  causing 
him  to  stand  suspended  in  the  act  he  was  about,  like  one  acted  upon  by 
magic. 

"While  this  mute  and  curious  examination  was  going  on  in  the  minds  of 
Ethel  and  her  visitant,  the  conversation  had  not  tarried.  Edward  had 
never  been  so  far  south,  and  the  wonders  of  Naples  were  as  new  to  him 
as  to  Ethel.  Saville  was  eager  to  show  them,  and  proposed  goin°-  that 
very  day  to  Pompeii.  For,  as  he  said,  all  their  winter  was  not  like  the 
present  day,  so  that  it  was  best  to  seize  the  genial  weather  while  it  lasted. 
Was  Mrs.  Villiers  too  much  fatigued  ?  On  the  contrary,  Ethel  was  quite 
on  the  alert ;  but  first  she  asked  whether  Mrs.  Saville  would  not  accom- 
pany them, 

"  Clorinda,"- said  Horatio,  "promises  herse^  much  pleasure  from  your 
acquaintance,  and  intends  calling  on  you  to-day  at  twenty-four  o'clock^ 
that  is,  at  the  Ave  Maria:  how  stupid  I  am,"  he  continued,  laughing, 
"  I  quite  forget  that  you  are  not  Italianized,  as  I  am,  and  do  not  know  the 
way  in  which  the  people  here  count  their  time.  Clorinda  will  call  late  in 
the  afternoon,  the  usual  visiting  hour  at  Naples,  but  she  would  find  no 
pleasure  in  visiting  a  ruined  city  and  fallen  fragments.  One  house  in  the 
Chiaja  is  worth  fifty  Pompeiis  in  the  eyes  of  a  Neapolitan,  and  Clorinda  is 
one,  heart  and  soul.  I  hope  you  will  be  pleased  with  her,  for  she  is  an 
admirable  specimen  of  her  countrywomen,  and  they  are  wonderful  and 
often  sublime  creatures  in  their  way  ;  but  do  not  mistake  her  for  an  Eng- 
lish woman,  or  you  will  be  disappointed  —  shp  has  not  one  atom  of  body, 
one  particle  of  mind,  that  bears  the  least  affinity  to  England.  And  now' 
-s  your  carriage  ordered  ?  —there  it  is  at  the  door  ;  so,  as  I  should  say  to 
ore  of  my  own  dear  sisters,  put  on  your  bonnet,  Ethel,  quickly  and  do 
not  keep  us  waiting  ;  for,  though  at  Naples,  days  are  short  in  December, 
and  we  have  none  of  their  light  to  lose." 

When  after  tnis  explanation,  Ethel  first  saw  Clorinda,  she  was  inclined 
to  think  that  Saville  had  scarcely  done  his  wife  justiee.  Certainly  she  was 
entirely  Itahan,  but  she  was  very  beautiful ;  her  complexion  was  delicate, 
though  dark  and  without  much  colour.  Her  hair  silken  and  dossy  as  the 
raven  a  wing;  her  large  bright  black  eyes  resplendent ;  the  perfect  arch  of 
her  brows,  and  the  marmoreal  and  harmonious  grace  of  her  forehead  such 
as  is  never  seen  in  northern  lands,  except  in  sculpture  imitated  fioi'n  the 
Greeks  The  lower  part  of  her  face  was  not  so  good ;  her  smile  was 
deficient  in  sweetness,  her  voice  wanted  melody,  and  sounded  loud  to  as 


I.ODORE.  123 

English  ear.  Her  gestures  were  expressive,  but  quick  and  wanting  in 
grace.  She  was  more  agreeable  when  silent  and  could  be  regarded  as  a 
picture,  than  when  called  into  action.  She  was  complimentary  in  her  con- 
versation, and  her  manners  were  winning  by  their  frankness  and  ease. 

She  gesticulated  too  much,  and  her  features  were  too  much  in  motion, 

too  panto mimely  expressive,  so  to  speak,  not  to  impress  disagreeably  one 
accustomed  to  the  composure  of  the  English.  Still  she  was=  a  beautiful 
creature;  young,  artless,  desirous  to  please,  and  endowed,  moreover,  with 
th'j  vivacious  genius,  the  imaginative  talent  of  her  country.  She  spoke  as 
if  she  were  passionately  attached  to  her  husband  ;  but  when  Ethel  men- 
tioned his  En  j.lish  home  and  his  relations,  a  cloud  came  over  the  lovely 
Neapolitan's  countenance,  and  a  tremor  shook  her  frame.  "  Do  not  think 
haidly  of  me,"  she  said  ;  "  1  do  not  hate  England,  but  I  fear  it.  I  am  sure 
I  should  be  disliked  there  —  I  should  be  censured,  perhaps  taunted,  for  a 
thousand  habits  and  feelings  as  natural  to  me  as  the  air  1  breathe.  I  am 
proud,  and  I  should  retort  impertinence,  and,  displeasing  my  husband, 
become  miserable  beyond  words.  Stay  with  us ;  you  I  love,  and  should 
be  wretched  to  part  from.  Stay  and  enjoy  this  paradise  with  us.  Intreat 
his  sisters,  if  they  wish  to  see  Horatio,  to  come  over.  I  will  be  more  than 
a  sister  to  them ;  but  let  us  all  forget  that  such  a  place  as  that  cold,  distant 
.England  exists." 

This  was  OloriniVs  usual  mode  of  speaking  of  her  husband's  native 
country:  but  once,  when  Ethel  had  ur  ed  her  goirfg  there  with  more  ear- 
nestness than  usual,  suddenly  her  countenance  became  disturbed;  and 
frith  a  lowering  and  stormy  expression  of  face,  that  her  English  friend 
rmild  never  afterwards  forget,  she  said,  "  Say  not  another  word,  I  pray. 
I  loratio  loved  —  he  loves  an  Englishwoman — it  is  torture  enough  for  me 
L>  know  this.  I  would  rather  be  torn  in  quarters  by  wild  horses,  broken 
i'A  pieces  on  the  rack,  than  set  foot  in  England.  My  cousin,  as  you  have 
pity  for  me,  and  value  the  life  of  Horace,  use  your  influence  to  prevent  his 
only  dreamin  j  of  a  return  to  England.  Methinks  I  could  strike  him  dead, 
if  1  only  knew  that  such  a  thought  lived  for  a  second  in  his  heart." 

These  words  said  Clorinda  resumed  her  smiles,  and  was,  more  than 
nsual,  desirous  of  flattering  and  pleasing  Ethel  ;  so  that  she  softened, 
though  she  could  not  erase,  the  impression  her  vehemence  had  made. 
However,  there  appeared  no  necessity  for  Ethel  to  exert  her  influence. 
)  lorace  was  equally  averse  to  going  to  England.  He  loved  to  talk  of  it ; 
be  remembered,  with  yearning  fondness,  its  verdant  beauty,  its  pretty  vil- 
lages, its  meandering  streams,  its  embowered  groves  ■  the  spots  he  had 
inhabited,  the  trivial  incidents  of  his  daily  life,  were  recalled  with  affection: 
but  he  did  not  wish  to  return.  Villiers  attributed  this  somewhat  to  his 
imfbrgoiten  attachment  to  Lady  Lodore  ;  but  it  was  more  strange  that  he 
regarived  the  idea  of  oive  of  his  siste:s  visiting  him  :  —  "  She  would  not 
I/lie  it,"  was  all  the  explanation  he  gave. 

Several  months  passed  lightly  over  the  heads  of  the  new-married  pair; 
while  they,  bee-like,  sipped  the  honey  of  life,  and,  never  cloyed,  fed  per- 
petual! v  on  sweet.  Naples,  its  galleries,  its  classic  and  beautiful  environs, 
o^ered  an  endless  succession  of  occupation  and  amusement.  The  presence 
of  Saville  elevated  their  pleasures  ;  ibr.'he  added  the  living  spirit  of  poetry 
V>  their  sensations,  and  associated  the  treasures  of  human  genius  with  the 
sublime  beautv  of  nature.  He  had  a  tact,  a  delicacy,  a  kind  of  electric 
s^mpathv  in  his  disposition,  that  endeared  him  to  every  one  that  approached 
b;ra.  His  very  singularities  by  keeping  alive  an  interest  in  him,  added  to 
ti-«  charm.  Sometimes  he  was  so  abstracted  as  to  do  the  most  absent 
tVngs  in  the  wodd  ;  an-1  the  quick  alternations  of  Ins  gayety  and  serious- 
ness were  often  ludicrous  from  their  exeess.  There  was  one  thing,  indeed, 
te  which  Ethel  found  it  difficult  to  accustom  herself,  which  was  his  want 


124  LODORE. 

of  punctuality,  which  often  caused  hours  to  be  lost,  and  their  excursions 
spoiled.  Nor  did  he  ever  furnish  good  excuses,  but  seemed  annoyed  at 
bein^  questioned  on  the  subject. 

Clorinda  never  joined  them  in  their  drives  and  rides  out  of  the  city.  She 
feared  to  trust  herself  to  winds  and  waves  ;  the  heat,  the  breeze,  the  dust, 
annoyed  her  ;  and  she  found  no  pleasure  in  looking  at  mountains,  whicn, 
after  all,  were  only  mountains  ;  or  ruins,  which  were  only  ruins  —  stones, 
tit  for  nothing  but  to  be  removed  and  thrown  away.  But  Clorinda  had  an 
empire  of  her  own,  to  which  she  gladly  admitted  her  English  relatives,  and 
the  delights  of  which  they  fully  appreciated.  Music,  heard  in  such  perfec- 
tion at  the  glory  of  Naples,  the  theatre  of  San  Carlo,  and  the  heavenly 
strains  which  filled  the  churches  with  an  atmosphere  of  sound  more  entran- 
cing than  incense  —  all  these  were  hers  ;  and  her  own  voice,  rich,  full,  and 
well  cultivated,  made  a  temple  of  melody  of  her  own  home. 

There  was— it  could  not  be  called  a  wall  —  but  there  was  certainly  a 
paling,  of  separation  between  Ethel  and  Clorinda.  The  young  English 
girl  could  not  discover  in  what  it  consisted,  or  why  she  could  not  pass  be- 
yond. The  more  she  saw  of  the  Neapolitan,  the  more  she  believed  that 
•he  liked  her  —  certainly  her  admiration  increased ;  — still  she  felt,  that  on 
the  first  day  that  Clorinda  had  visited  her,  with  her  caressing  manners  and 
well-turned  flatteries,  she  was  quite  as  intimate  with  her  as  now,  after  sev<? 
eral  weeks.  She  had  surely  nothing  to  conceal  ;  all  was  open  in  her  con- 
duct ;  yet  often  Ethel  thought  of  her  as  a  magician  guarding  a  secret  treas- 
ure. Something  there  was  that  she  watched  over  and  hid.  There  was 
often  a  look  of  anxiety  about  her  which  Ethel  unconsciously  dispelled  by 
some  chance  word  ;  or  a  cloud  all  at  once  dimmed  her  face,  and  her  mag- 
nificent and  dazzling  eyes  flashed  sudden  fire,  without  apparent  cause. 
There  was  something  in  her  manner  that  always  said,  "You  are  English, 
I  am  Italian  ;  and  there  is  natural  war  between  my  fire  and  your  snow." 
But  no  word,  no  act,  ever  betrayed  alienation  of  feeling.  Thus  a  soit  of 
nystery  pervaded  their  intercourse,  which  though  it  might  excite  curiosity, 
and  was  not  unakin  to  admiration,  kept  the  affections  in  check. 

Sometimes  Ethel  thought  that  Clorinda  feared  to  compromise  her  salvation, 
for-she  was  a  Catholic.  During  the  revelries  of  the  Carnival,  this  difference 
of  religion  was  not  so  apparent ;  but  when  Lent  began,  it  showed  itself, 
and  divided  them,  on  various  occasions,  more  than  before.  At  last,  Lent 
also  was  drawing  to  a  close  ;  and  as  Villiers  and  Ethel  were  anxious  to  seo 
the  ceremonies  of  Passion  Week  at  Rome,  it  was  arranged  that  they,  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Saville  should  visit  the  Eternal  City  together.  Horatio 
manifested  a  distaste  even  to  the  short  residence  that  it  was  agreed  they 
should  make  together  during  the  month  they  were  to  spend  at  Rome  ;  but 
Clorinda  showed  herself  particularly  anxious  for  the  fulfilmem  of  this  plan, 
and,  the  majority  prevailing,  the  whole  party  left  Naples  together. 

Full  soon  was  the  veil  of  mystery  then  withdrawn,  and  Villiers  and  his 
wife  let  into  the  arcana  of  their  cousin's  life.  Horatio  had  yielded  unwil- 
lingly to  Clorinda's  entreaties,  and  extracted  many  promises  from  her  before 
he  gave  his  eonsent ;  but  all  would  not  do —  the  natural,  the  uncontrollable 
violence  of  her  disposition  broke  down  every  barrier ;  and  in  spite  of  his 
caution,  and  her  struggles  with  herself,  the  reality  opened  feai fully  upon 
the  English  pair.  The  lava  torrent  of  Neapolitan  blood  flowed  in  her 
veins  ;  and  restraining  it  for  some  time,  it  at  last  poured  itself  forth  with 
volcanic  violence.  It  was  at  the  inn  at  Terracina  on  their  way  to  Rome, 
that  a  scene  took  place,  such  as  an  English  person  must  cross  Alps  and 
Apennines  to  behold.  Ethel  had  seen  that  something  was  wrong.  She 
saw  the  beauty  of  Clorinda  vanished,  changed,  melted  away,  and  awfully 
transformed  into  actual  ugliness  :  she  saw  tiger-like  glances  from  her  eyes, 
and  her  lips  pale  and  quivering.     Poor  Saville  strove,  with  gentle  words, 


LODORE.  125 

to  allay  the  storm  to  which  some  jealous  freak  gave  rise  :  perceiving  that 
his  endeavours  were  vain,  he  rose  to  quit  the  room.  They  were  at  dinner  : 
she  sprung  on  him  with  a  knife  in  her  hand  :  Edward  seized  her  arm  ;  and 
she  sunk  on  the  floor  in  convulsions.  Ethel  was  scarcely  less  moved. 
Seeing  her  terrified  beyond  all  expression,  Horatio  led  her  from  the  room. 
He  was  pale  —  his  voice  failed  him.  He  left  her ;  and  sending  Edward  to 
her,  returned  to  his  wife. 

The  same  evening  he  said  to  Villiers,  —  "  do  not  ask  me  to  stay  ;  —  \e* 
rre  go  without  another  word.  You  see  how  it  is.  With  what  Herculean 
labour  I  have  concealed  this  sad  truth  so  long,  is  scarcely  conceivable. 
When  Ethel's  sweet  smile  has  sometimes  reproached  my  tardiness,  I  have 
escaped,  but  half  alive,  from  a  scene  like  the  one  you  witnessed. 

"  In  a  few  hours,  it  is  true,  Ciorinda  will  be  shocked  —  full  of  remorse  — 
at  mv  feet ;  —  that  is  worse  still.  Her  repentance  is  as  violent  as  her  rage  ; 
and  both  transform  her  from  a  woman  into  something  too  painful  co  dwell 
upon.  She  is  generous,  virtuous,  full  of  power  and  talent ;  but  this  fatal 
vehemence  more  than  neutralizes  her  good  qualities.  I  can  do  nothing  ;  I 
am  chained  to  the  oar.  I  have  but  one  hope  :  time,  reason,  and  steadiness 
of  conduct  on  my  part  may  subdue  her ;  and  as  she  will  at  no  distant  period 
become  a  mother,  softer  feelings  may  develop  themselves.  Sometimes  I 
<  am  violently  impelled  to  fly  from  her  for  ever.  But  she  loves  me,  and  I  will 
not  desert  her.  If  she  will  permit  me,  I  will  do  my  duty  to  the  end.  Let 
us  £0  back  now.  You  will  return  to  Naples  next  winter ;  and  with  this 
separation,  which  will  sail  her  proud  spirit  to  its  core,  as  a  lesson,  I  hope 
by  that  time  that  she  will  prove  more  worthy  of  Ethel's  society." 

Nothing  could  be  said  to  this.  Saville,  though  he  asked,  "  Let  us  go  back," 
had  decreed,  irrevocably,  in  his  own  mind,  not  to  advance  another  step  with 
his  companions.  The  parting  was  melancholy  and  ominous.  He  would 
not  permit  Ciorinda  to  appear  again  ;  for,  as  he  said,  he  feared  her  repent- 
ance more  than  her  violence,  and  would  not  expose  Ethel  as  the  witness 
of  a  scene  of  humiliation  and  shame.  A  thousand  times  over,  his  frier Js 
promised  to  return  immediately  to  Naples,  not  deferring  their  visit  till  tht 
following  winter.  He  was  to  take  a  house  for  them,  for  the  summer,  at 
Castel  a.  Mare,  or  Sorrento  ;  and  immediately  after  Easter  they  were  to  re- 
turn. These  kind  promises  were  a  balm  to  his  disturbed  mind.  He  watched 
their  carriage  from  the  inn  at  Terracina,  as  it  skimmed  along  the  level  road 
of  the  Pontine  Marshes,  and  could  not  despair  while  he  expected  its  quick 
return.  Turning  his  eyes  away,  he  resumed  his  yoke  again  ;  and,  melan- 
choly beyond  h's  wont,  joined  his  remorseful  wife.  They  were  soon  on 
th°ir  way  back  to  Naples  :  —  she  less  demonstrative  in  her  repentance,  be- 
cause more  internally  and  deeply  touched,  than  she  had  ever  been  before. 


,26 


LODORK. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate  ; 
Rough  vinds  do  shake  the  darlintr  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date  ; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade. 

fcJHAKSFEARE. 

Parting  thus  sadly  from  their  unfortunate  cousin,  Villiers  and  Ethel 
were  drawn  together  yet  nearer,  and,  if  possible,  with  a  deeper  tenderness 
of  affection  than  before.  Here  was  an  example  before  their  eyes,  that  all 
their  fellow-creatures  were  not  equally  fortunate  in  the  lottery  of  life,  and 
that  worse  than  a  blank  befell  many,  while  the  ticket  which  they  had  drawn 
was  a  prize  beyond  all  summing.  Edward  felt  indeed  disappointed  at.  losing 
his  cousin's  society,  as  well  as  deeply  grieved  at  the  wretched  fate  which  he 
had  selected  for  himself.  Ethel,  on  the  contrary,  was  in  her  heart  glad  that 
he  was  absent.  She  had  no  place  in  that  heart  to  spare  away  from  her  hus- 
band ;  and  however  much  she  liked  Horatio,  and  worthy  as  he  was  of  her 
friendship,  she  felt  him  as  an  encroacher.  Now  she  delivered  herself  up  to 
Edward,  and  to  the  thought  of  Edward  solely,  with  fresh  and  genuine  de- 
light. No  one  stood  between  her  and  him — none  called  off  his  attention, 
or  forced  her  to  pass  one  second  of  time  unoccupied  by  his  idea.  When  she 
expressed  these  feelings  to  Villiers,  he  called  her  selfish  and  narrow-hearted, 
yet  his  pride  and  his  affection  were  gratified  ;  for  he  knew  how  true  was 
every  word  she  uttered,  and  how  without  flaw  or  blot  was  her  faith  and  her 
attachment. 

"  And  yet,  my  Ethel,"  he  said,  "I  sometimes  ask  myself,  how  this  boast- 
ed affection  of  yours  will  stand  the  trials  which  I  fear  are  preparing  for  it." 

"What  trials?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  Care,  poverty  ;  the  want  of  all  the  luxuries,  perhaps  of  the  comforts  ot 
l'.fe." 

Ethel  smiled  again.  "  That  is  your  affair,"  she  replied  ;  "  do  you  rouse 
your  courage,  if  you  look  upon  these  as  evils.  I  shall  feel  nothing  of  all  this, 
while  near  you  ;  care  —  poverty —  want !  as  if  \  needed  any  thing  except 
your  love  — you  yourself* — who  are  mine." 

"Yes,  dear,"  replied  Villiers,  "  that  is  all  very  well  at  this  moment ;  roll- 
ing along  in  a  comfortable  carriage  —  a  hotel  ready  to  receive  us,  with  all 
its  luxuries  ;  but  suppose  us  without  any  of  these,  Ethel  —  suppose  your- 
self in  a  melancholy,  little,  dingy  abode,  without  servants,  without  carriage, 
going  out  on  foot." 

"Not  alone,"  replied  his  wife,  laughing,  and  kissing  his  hand  ;  "I  shall 
have  you  to  wait  on  me  —  to  wait  upon  —  " 

"  You  take  it  very  well  now,"  said  Edward  ;  :'T  hope  that  you  will  never 
be  put  to  the  trial.  I  am  far  from  anticipating  this  excess  of  wretchedness, 
of  course,  but  [  cannot  help  feeling,  that  the  prospects  of  to-morrow  are  un- 
certain, and  I  am  anxious  for  my  long-delayed  letters  from  England. 

With  Ethel's  deep  and  warm  affection,  had  she  been  ten  or  only  five  years 
older,  she  also  must  have  participated  in  Edward's  inquietude.  But  care  is 
a  word,  not  an  emotion,  for  the  very  young.  She  was  only  seventeen.  She 
had  never  attended  to  the  disbursements  of  money  —  she  was  ignorant  of  the 
mechanism  of  giving  and  receiving,  on  which  the  course  of  our  life  depends. 
It  was  in  vain  that  she  sought  in  the  interior  of  her  mind  for  an  image  that 
should  produce  fear  or  regret,  writh  regard  to  the  absence  or  presence  of 


LODORt.  127 

money.  No  one  reflection  or  association  brought  into  being  an  idea  on  the 
subject.  Again  she  kissed  Edward's  hand,  and  looked  on  him  with  her 
soft  clear  eyes,  thinking  only,  "He  is  here  —  and  Heaven  has  given  me  ali 
I  ask." 

Left  again  to  themselves,  they  wore  anxious  to  avoid  acquaintances. 
"YV.t  this  was  impossible  during  the  holy  week  at  Rome.  Villiers  found 
many  parsons  whom  he  knew  ;  women  of  high  rank  and  fashion,  men  of 
<vealth,  or  with  the  appearance  of  it,  enjoying  the  present,  and,  while  away 
from  England,  unencumbered  by  care.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Villiers  were  among 
tiiese,  and  of  them;  their  rank  and  their  style  of  living  resembling  theirs, 
associated  them  together.  All  this  was  necessary  to  Edward,  for  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  it — it  was  natural  to  Ethel,  because,  being  wholly- 
inexperienced,  she  did  as  others  did,  and  as  Villiers  wished  her  to  do? 
without  reflection  or  forethought.  • 

Yet  each  day  added  to  Edward's  careful  thoughts.  Easter  was  gone, 
anil  the  period  approached  when  they  had  talked  of  returning  to  Naples. 
The  covey  of  English  had  taken  flight  towards  the  north  ;  they  were  almost 
the  only  strangers  in  the  ancient  and  silent  city,  whose  every  stone  breathes 
of  a  world  gone  by  —  whose  surpassing  beauty  crowns  her  still  the  glory  of 
the  world.  The  English  pair,  left  to  themselves,  roamed  through  the  ruins 
and  loitered  in  the  galleries,  never  weary  of  the  very  ocean  of  beauty  and 
grandeur  which  they  coursed  over  in  their  summer  bark.  The  weather 
grew  warm,  for  the  month  of  May  had  commenced,  and  they  took  refuge 
in  the  vast  churches  from  the  heat ;  at  twilight  they  sought  the  neighbouring 
gardens,  or  scrambled  about  the  Coliseum,  or  the  more  ruined  and  weed- 
grown  baths  ofCaracalla.  The  fire-flies  came  out,  and  the  splashing  of 
the  many  fountains  reached  their  ears  from  afar,  while  the  clear  azure  of 
the  Roman  sky  bent  over  them  in  beauty  and  peace. 

Ethel  never  alluded  to  their  proposed  return  to  Naples  —  she  feared  each 
dav  to  hear  Villiers  mention  it  —  she  was  so  happy  where  she  was,  she 
shrunk  from  any  change.  The  majesty,  the  simplicity,  the  quiet  of  Rome, 
were  in  unison  with  the  holy  stillness  that  dwelt  in  her  soul,  absorbed  as  it 
was  by  one  unchanging  image.  She  had  reached  the  summit  of  human 
happiness  —  she  had  nothing  more  to  ask  ;  her  full  heart,  not  bursting,  yet 
gently  overflowing  in  its  bliss,  thanked  Heaven,  and  drewT  nearer  Edward, 
and  was  at  peace. 

"  God  help  us  !"  exclaimed  Villiers  ;  w  I  wonder  what  on  earth  will  become 
of  us  !" 

They  were  sitting  together  on  a  fragment  of  the  Coliseum  ;  they  had 
clambered  up  its  fallen  wall,  and  reached  a  kind  of  weed-grown  chasm, 
whose  depth,  as  it  was  moonlight,  they  could  not  measure  by  the  eye  ;  so 
they  sat  beside  it  on  a  small  fragment,  and  Villiers  held  Ethel  close  to  him 
lest  she  should  fall.  The  heartfelt  and  innocent  caress  of  two  united  in  the 
sight  of  Heaven,  wedded  together  for  the  endurance  of  the  good  and  ills  of 
life,  hallowed  the  spot  and  hour  ;  and  then,  even  while  Ethel  nestled  nearer 
to  him  in  fondness,  Edward  made  the  exclamation  that  she  heard  with  a 
wonder  which  mingled  with,  }'et  could  not  disturb,  the  calm  joy  wdiich  she 
felt. 

"  What  but  £ood  can  come  of  us,  while  we  are  thus  ?"  she  asked. 

"  You  will  not  listen  to  me,  nor  understand  me,"  replied  her  husband. 
"But  I  do  assure  you  that  our  position  is  more  than  critical.  No  remit- 
tances, no  letters  come  from  England  ;  we  are  in  debt  here  —  in  debt  in 
Italy  !  A  thousand  miles  from  our  resources !  T  grope  in  the  dark,  and 
s*:e  no  outlet  —  every  day's  post,  with  the  nothing  that  it  brings,  adds  to 
my  anxiety." 

■<  All  will  be  well,"  replied  Ethel,  gently ;  "  no  real  evil  will  happen  to 
us,  be  assured  w 


?28  fcODORE. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Villiers,  "  your  experience,  instead  of  your  Ignorance,, 
suggested  the  assertion.  I  would  rather  die  a  thousand  deaths  than  applet 
to  dear  Horace,  who  is  ill  enough  off  himself;  but  every  day  here  adds  to 
our  difficulties.  Our  only  hope  is  in  our  instant  return  to  England  —  andy 
by  heavens  !  —  you  kiss  me,  Ethel,  as  if  we  lived  in  fairy  land,  and  that 
such  were  our  food  —  have  you  no  fears  ?" 

a  I  am  sorry  to  say,  none,"  she  answered  in  a  soft  voice ;  "  i  wish  I  could 
contrive  some,  because  I  appear  un sympathizing  to  you  —  but  1  cannot 
fear ;  —  you  are  in  health  and  near  me.  Heaven  and  my  dear  father'? 
spirit  will  watch  over  us,  and  all  will  be  well.  This  is  the  end  and  begin- 
ning of  my  anxiety  ;  so  dismiss  yours,  love  —  for,  believe  me,  in  a  day  or 
two,  these  forebodings  of  yours  will  be  as  a  dream." 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  replied  Edward  ;  "  were  you  not  so  close  to  me,  1 
should  fancy  you  a  spirit  instead  of  a  woman  ;  you  seem  to  have  no  touch 
of  earthly  solicitude.  Well,  I  will  do  as  you  bid  me,  and  hope  for  to  mor- 
row. And  now  let  us  get  down  from  this  place  before  the  moon  sets  and 
leaves  us  in  darkness." 

As  if  to  confirm  the  auguries  of  Ethel,  the  following  morning  brought  the 
long-expected  letters.  One  contained  a  remittance,  another  was  from  Colo- 
nel Villiers,  to  say,  that  Edward's  immediate  presence  was  requisite  in 
England  to  make  the  final  arrangements  before  his  marriage.  "With  a 
glad  heart  Villiers  turned  his  steps  northward  ;  While  Ethel,  if  she  cou'd 
have  regretted  aught  while  with  him,  would  have  sighed  to  leave  their  lonely 
haunts  in  Rome.  She  well  knew  that  whatever  of  sublime  nature  might 
display,  or  man  might  congregate  of  beautiful  in  art  elsewhere,  there  was  a 
calm  majesty,  a  silent  and  awful  repose  in  the  ruins  of  Rome,  joined  to  the 
delights  of  a  southern  climate,  and  the  luxuriant  vegetation  ot  a  sunny  soil,, 
more  in  unison  with  her  single  and  devcted  heart,  than  any  other  spot  in  the 
universe  could  boast.  They  would  both  have  re  oiced  to  have  seen  Saville 
again  ;  yet  they  were  unacknowlcdgedly  glad  not  to  pursue  their  plan  of  do- 
mesticating near  him  at  Naples.  A  remediless  evil,  which  is  for  ever  the 
source  of  fresh  disquietude,  is  one  that  tasks  human  fortitude  and  human 
patience,  more  than  those  vaster  misfortunes  which  elevate  while  they  wound* 
The  proud  aspiring  spirit  of  man  craves  something  to  raise  him  from  the  dust, 
and  to  adorn  his  insignificance  ;  he  seeks  to  strengthen  his  alliance  with  the 
lofty  and  the  eternal,  and  shrinks  from  low-born  cares,  as  being  the  fetters  and 
bolts  that  link  him  to  his  baser  origin.  Saville,  the  slave  of  a  violent 
woman's  caprice,  struggling  with  passions,  at  once  so  fiery  and  so  feeble  as 
to  excite  contempt,  was  a  spectacle  which  they  were  glad  to  shun.  There 
own  souls  were  in  perfect  harmony,  and  discord  was  peculiarly  abhorrent 
to  them. 

They  travelled  by  the  beaten  route  of  Mont  Cenis,  Lyons,  and  Calais, 
and  in  less  than  a  month  arrived  in  England.  As  the  presence  of  Villiers 
was  requisite  in  London,  after  staying  a  few  days  at  a  hotel  in  Brook- 
street,  they  took  a  furnished  house  in  the  same  street  for  a  short  time.  The 
London  season  had  passed  its  zenith,  but  its  decline  was  scarcely  percepti- 
ble. Ethel  had  no  wish  to  enter  into  its  gayeties,  and  it  had  been  Edward's 
plan  to  avoid  them  until  they  were  richer.  But  here  they  were,  placed  by 
fate  in  the  very  midst  of  them  ;  and  as,  when  their  affairs  were  settled,  they 
intended  again  to  return  abroad,  he  could  not  refuse  himself  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  Ethel,  in  the  first  flower  of  her  loveliness,  mingling  with,  and  out- 
shining, every  other  beauty  of  her  country.  It  would  have  been  difficult 
indeed,  placed  within  the  verge  of  the  English  aristocracy  assembled  in 
London,  to  avoid  its  engagements  and  pleasures  —  for  he  "  Also  was  an 
Arcadian,"  and  made  one  of  the  self-enthroned  "  world."  The  next  two 
months,  therefore,  while  still  every  settlement  was  delayed  by  his  father,  the^ 
spent  in  the  fashionable  circles  of  London. 


LODORE.  129 

They  did  not  indeed  enter  into  its  amusements  with  the  zest  and  resolu- 
tion of  tyros.  To  Villiers  the  scene  was  not  new,  and  therefore  not  ex- 
ceedingly enticing  ;  and  Ethel's  mind  was  not  of  the  sort  to  be  borne  alone 
in  the  stream  of  folly.  They  avoided  going  to  crowded  entertainments  — 
they  were  always  satisfied  with  one  or  two  parties  in  the  evening.  Nay, 
once  or  twice  in  the  week  they  usually  remained  at  home,  and  notunseldom 
dined  /e'e-a-'e.'e.  The  serpent  fang  of  pleasure,  and  the  paltry  ambition  of 
society,  had  no  power  over  Ethel.  She  often  enjoyed  herself,  because  she 
often  met  people  of  either  sex,  whose  fame,  or  wit,  or  manners,  interested 
and  pleased  her.  But  as  little  vanity  as  mortal  woman  ever  had  fell  to  her 
share.  Very  young,  and  (to  use  the  phrase  Tjf  the  day)  very  new,  flattery 
and  admiration  glanced  harmlessly  by  her.  Her  personal  vanity  was  satis- 
fied when  Villiers  was  pleased,  and,  for  the  rest,  she  was  glad  to  improve 
her  mind,  and  to  wear  away  the  timidity,  which  she  felt  that  her  lonely  edu- 
cation had  induced,  by  mingling  with  the  best  society  of  her  country. 

She  had  also  some  curiosity,  and  as  she  promised  herself  but  a  brief  so 
journ  in  this  land  of  lions,  she  wished  to  see  several  things  and  persons  she 
might  never  come  in  contact  with  again.  Various  names  which  had 
reached  her  in  the  Illinois,  here  grew  from  shadows  into  real  human  beings 
—  ministers  of  state,  beauties,  authors,  and  wits.  She  visited  once  or 
twice  the  ventilator  of  St.  Stephen's,  and  graced  a  red  bench  of  the  House 
of  Lo,-ds  on  the  prorogation  of  Parliament.  Villiers  was  very  much  pleased 
with  her  throughout.  His  pride  was  gratified  by  the  approval  she  elicited 
fro  n  all.  Men  admired  her,  but  distantly  —  as  a  being  they  could  not 
rudely  nor  impertinently  approach.  Women  were  not  afraid  of  her, 
b  icause  they  saw,  that  though  she  made  no  display  of  conjugal  attachment, 
she  loved  her  husband.  Her  extreme  youth,  the  perpetual  sunshine  of  her 
countenance,  and  the  gentle  grace  of  her  manners,  won  more  the  liking 
thai  the  praise  of  her  associates.  They  drew  near  her  as  to  one  too  un- 
taught to  understand  their  mysteries,  and  too  innocent  to  judge  them 
severely;  an  atmosphere  of  kindness  and  of  repose  followed  her  wherever 
she  went:  this  her  husband  felt  more  than  any  other,  and  he  prized  his 
Ethel  at  the  worth  she  so  truly  deserved. 

One  of  the  reasons  which  caused  Mrs.  Villiers  to  avoid  large  assemblies, 
was  that  Lady  Lodore  was  in  town,  and  that  in  such  places  they  sometimes 
met.  Ethel  did  not  well  know  how  to  act.  Youth  is  ever  fearful  of  mak- 
ing unwelcome  demonstration,  and  false  shame  often  acts  more  powerfully 
to  influence  it,  than  the  call  of  duty  or  the  voice  of  affection.  Villiers  had 
no  desire  to  brings  the  mother  and  daughter  together,  and  stood  neutral. 
Lady  Lodore  had  once  or  twice  recognised  her  by  a  bow  and  a  smile,  but 
after  such,  she  alwavs  vanished  and  was  seen  no  more  that  evening. 
Ethel  often  yearned  to  approach,  to  claim  her  tenderness  and  to  offer  her 
filial  affection.  Villiers  laughed  at  such  flights.  "  The  safe  thinsr  to  do," 
he  said,  "  is  to  take  the  tone  of  Lady  Lodore.  She  is  held  back  by  no 
bashfulness  —  she  does  the  thing  she  wishes,  without  hesitation  or  difficulty. 
Did  she  desire  her  lovely  grown-up  daughter  to  play  a  child's  part  towards 
her,  she  would  soon  contrive  to  bring  it  about.  Lady  Lodore  is  a  woman 
of  the  world  —  she  was  nursed  in  its  lessons,  and  piously  adheres  to  its 
code  ;  its  wavs  are  hers,  and  the  objects  of  ambition  which«k  holds  out, 
are  those  which  she  desires  to  attam.     She  is  talked  of  as  admired  and 

followed  by  the  Earl  of  D .     You  may  spoil  all,  if  you  put  yourself 

forwa.-d." 

Ethel  was  not  quite  satisfied.  The  voice  of  nature  was  awake  within, 
and  she  yearned  to  claim  her  mother's  affection.  Until  now,  she  had  re- 
garded her  more  as  a  stranger  ;  but  at  this  time,  a  filial  instinct  stirred  her 
heart,  impelling  her  to  some  outward  act  —  some  demonstration  of  duty. 
Whenever  she  saw  Lady  Lodore,  which  was  rarely,  and  at  a  distance,  she 


130  LODORE. 

gazed  earnestly  on  her,  and  tried  to  read  within  her  soul,  whetner  Villfers 
was  light,  and  her  mother  happy.  The  shining,  uniform  outside  of  a 
woman  of  fashion  baffled  her  endeavours  without  convincing  her.  One 
evening  at  the  opera,  she  discerned  Lady  Lodore  in  the  tier  below  her. 
Ethel  drew  back  and  shaded  herself  with  the  curtain  of  her  box,  so  that 
she  could  not  be  perceived,  while  she  watched  her  mother  intently.  A 
succession  of  visiters  came  into  Lady  Lodore's  box,  and  she  spoke  to  all  with 
the  animation  of  a  heart  at  ease.  There  was  an  almost  voluptuous  repose 
in  her  manner  and  appearance,  that  contrasted  with,  while  it  adorned,  the 
easy  flow  of  her  conversation,  and  the  spring-tide  of  wit,  which,  to  judge 
from  the  amusement  of  her  auditors,  flowed  frofri  her  lips.  Yet  Ethel  fancied 
that  her  smile  was  often  forced,  so  suddenly  did  it  displace  an  expression  ot 
listlessness  and  languor,  which  when  she  turned  from  the  people  in  her  box 
to  the  stage,  came  across  her  countenance  like  a  shadow.  It  might  be  the 
gas,  which  shadows  so  unbecomingly  the  fair  audience  at  the  King's  The- 
atre ;  it  might  be  the  consequences  of  raking,  for  Lady  Lodore  was  out, 
every  night ;  but  Ethel  thought  that  she  saw  a  change  ;  she  was  less  brilliant, 
her  person  thinner,  and  had  lost  some  of  its  exquisite  roundness.  Still,  as 
her  daughter  gazed,  she  thought,  She  is  not  happy.  Yet  what  could  she 
do?  How  pour  sweetness  into  the  bitter  stream  of  life  ?  As  Villiers  had 
said,  any  advance  of  hers  might  spoil  all.     The  sister  of  the  nobleman  he 

had  mentioned,  was  her  companion  at  the  opera.     Lord  D himsell 

came,  though  late,  to  fetch  her  away.  She  had  therefore  her  own  prospects, 
her  own  plans,  which  doubtless  she  desired  to  pursue  undisturbed,  however 
they  might  fail  to  charm  away  the  burden  of  life. 

Once,  and  only  once,  Ethei  heard  her  mother's  voice,  and  was  spoken  to 
by  her.  She  had  gone  to  hear  the  speech  from  the  throne,  on  the  prorogation 
of  Parliament  She  got  there  late,  so  that  every  bench  was  filled.  Room 
was  made  for  her  hear  the  throne,  immediately  under  the  gallery,  (as  the 
house  was  constructed  until  last  year,)  but  she  was  obliged  to  be  separated 
from  her  party,  and  sat  half  annoyed  at  being  surrounded  by  strangers.     A 

peer,  whom  she  recognised  as  the  Earl  of  D ,  came  up,  and  entered  into 

conversation  with  the  lady  sitting  behind  her.  Could  it  be  her  mother  ? 
She  remembered,  that  as  she  sat  down  she  had  glanced  at  some  one  whom 
she  thought  she  knew,  and  she  did  not  doubt  that  this  was  Lady  Lodore. 
A  sudden  thrill  passed  as  an  electric  shock  through  her  frame,  every  joint 
in  her  body  trembled,  her  knees  knocked  together,  and  the  colour  forsook 
her  cheeks.  She  tried  to  rally.  Why  should  she  feel  agitated,  as  if  pos- 
sessed by  terror,  on  account  of  this  near  contact  with  the  dearest  relation 
Heaven  has  bestowed  on  its  creatures  ?  Why  not  turn  ;  and  if  she  did 
not  speak,  claim,  with  beseeching  eyes',  her  mother's  love  ?  Was  it  indeed 
her?  The  lady  spoke,  and  her  voice  entered  and  stirred  Ethel's  beating 
heart  with  strange  emotion  ;  every  drop  of  blood  within  her  seemed  to  leap 
at  the  sound  ;  but  she  sat  still  as  a  statue,  saying  to  herself,  "  When  Lord 

D leaves  her,  I  will  turn  and  speak."     After  some  trivial  conversation 

on  topics  of  the  day,  the  peers  were  ordered  to  take  their  seats,  and  Lord 

D departed  ;  —  then  Ethel  tried  to  summon  all  her  courage  ;  but  now 

the  doors  were  thrown  open,  the  king  entered,  and  every  one  stood  up.  At 
this  morry^t, —  as  she,  in  the  confusion  of  being  called  upon,  while  ab- 
stracted, to  do  any  act,  however  slight,  had  for  a  moment  half  forgotten  hei 
mother,  —  her  arm  was  touched  ;  and  the  same  voice  which  had  replied  to 

Lord  D said  to  her,  "Your  ear-ring  is  unfastened,  Ethel ;  it  will  fall 

out."  Ethel  could  not  speak ;  she  raised  her  hands,  mechanically,  to  ar- 
range the  ornament ;  but  her  trembling  fingers  refused  to  perform  the  office. 
"Permit  me,"  said  the  lady,  drawing  off  her  glove;  and  Ethel  felt  ner 
mother's  hand  touch  her  cheek :  her  very  life  stood  suspended;  it  was  a 
bitter  pain,  yet  a  pleasure  inconceivable ;  there  was  a  suffocation  in  hev 


LODORE.  131 

throat,  and  the  tears  filled  her  eyes  ;  but  even  the  simple  words,  "  I  thank 
you,"  died  on  her  lips  —  her  voice  could  frame  no  sound.  The  world,  and 
all  within  its  sphere,  might  have  passed  away  at  that  moment,  and  she 
been  unconscious  of  any  change.  "Yes,  she  will  love  me  !"  was  the  idea 
that  spoke  audibly  within  ;  and  a  feeling  of  confidence,  a  flow  of  sympathy 
and  enthusiast' c  affection,  burst  on  her  heart. 

As  soon  as  she  could  recollect  herself,  she  turned  :  Lady  Lodore  was  no 
longer  there  ;  she  had  glided  from  her  seat;  and  Ethel  just  caught  a  glimpse 
of  her,  as  she  contrived  another  for  herself,  behind  a  column,  which  after- 
wards so  hid  her,  that  her  daughter  could  only  see  the  waving  of  her 
plumes.  On  these  she  fixed  her  eyes  until  all  was  over  ;  and  then  Lady 
Lodore  went  out  hurriedly,  with  averted  face,  as  if  to  escape  her  recognition. 
This  put  the  seal  on  Ethel  s  dream.  She  believed  lhat  her  mother  obviously 
signified  her  desire  that  they  should  continue  strangers  to  each  other.  It 
was  hard,  but  she  must  submit.  She  had  no  longer  that  prejudice  against 
Lady  Lodore,  that  exaggerated  notion  of  her  demerits,  which  the  long  ex- 
ile of  her  father,  and  the  abhorrence  of  Mrs.  Fitzhenry,  had  before  instilled. 
Her  mother  was  no  longer  a  semi-gorgon,  hid  behind  a  deceptive  mask  — 
a  M3dea,  without  a  touch  of  human  pity.  She  was  a  lovely,  soft- voiced, 
angelic-looking  woman,  whom  she  would  have  given  worlds  to  be  permitted. 
to  love  and  wait  upon.  She  found  excuses  for  her  errors  ;  she  lavished  ad- 
miration on  all  her  attractions  ;  she  could  do  all  but  muster  courage  to  van- 
quish the  obstacles  that  existed  to  their  intercourse.  She  fondly  cherished 
her  image,  as  an  idol  placed  in  the  sanctuary  of  her  heart,  which  she  could 
regard  with  silent  reverence  and  worship,  but  whose  concealing  veil  she 
could  not  raise.  Villiers  smiled  when  she  spoke  in  this  way  to  him.  He 
saw,  in  her  enthusiasm,  the  overflowing  of  an  affectionate  heart,  which 
longed  to  exhaust  itself  in  loving.  He  kissed  her,  and  bade  her  think  any 
thing,  so  t..-ut  she  did  nothing.  The  time  for  doing  had  indeed,  for  the 
present,  passed  away.  Lady  Lodore  left  town  ;  and  when  mother  and 
daughter  met  again,  it  was  not  destined  to  be  beneath  a  palace  roof,  sur- 
rounded by  the  nobility  of  the  land. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

I  choose  to  comfort  myself  by  considering,  that  even  while  lam  lamenting  ray  present 
uneasiness,  it  is  passing  away. 

Horace  Walpole. 

An  event  occurred  at  this  time,  which  considerably  altered  the  plans  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Villiers.  They  had  been  invited  to  spend  some  time  at 
Maristow  Castle,  and  were  about  to  proceed  thither  with  Lord  Maristow 
and  his  daughters,  when  the  sudden  death  of  Mr.  Saville  changed  every 
thing.  He  died  of  a  malignant  fever,  leaving  a  young  widow,  and  no  child 
to  inherit  his  place  in  society. 

Through  this  unlooked-for  event,  Horatio  became  the  immediate  heir  ot 
his  father's  title.  He  stepped  from  the  slighted  position  of  a  younger  son  into 
the  rank  of  the  eldest ;  and  thus  became  another  being  in  all  men's  eyes  — 
but  chiefly  in  his  father's. 

Viscount  Maristow  had  deeply  regretted  his  son's  foreign  marriage,  and 
argued  against  his  choice  of  remaining  abroad.  He  was  a  statesman,  and 
con  ;eiverl  that  Horatio's  talents  and  eloquence  would  place  him  high  amon^ 
the  legislators  of  St.  Stephen's.  The  soundness  of  his  understanding,  and 
the  flowing  brilliancy  of  his  language,  were  pledges  of  his  success.  But 
Saville  was  not  ambitious.     His  imagination  rose  high  above  the  empty 


132  LODORE. 

honours  of  the  world  —  to  be  useful  was  a  better  aim  ;  but  he  did  not  con* 
ceive  that  his  was  a  mind  calculated  to  lead  others  in  its  train  ;  its  frame- 
work was  too  delicate,  too  finely  strung,  to  sound  in  accord  with  the  many. 
He  wanted  the  desire  to  triumph  5,  and  was  content  to  adore  truth  in  the 
temple  of  bis  own  mind,  without  defacing  its  worship  by  truckling  to  the 
many  falsehoods  and  errors  which  demand  subserviency  in  the  world. 

Lord  Maristow  had  hitherto  submitted  to  his  disappointment,  not  without 
murmurs,  but  without  making  any  great  effort  at  victory.  He  had  written 
mmy  letters  entreating  his  son  to  cast  off  the  drowsy  Neapolitan  sloth  ,  -  - 
ne  had  besought  Villiers,  previous  to  his  departure  the  preceding  year,  to 
br'ng  his  cousin  back  with  him  ;  — and  this  was  all. 

The  death  of  his  eldest  son  quickened  him  to  exertion.  He  resolved  to 
trust,  no  longer  to  written  arguments,  but  to  go  himself  to  Italy,  and  by  force  of 
parental  authority,  or  persuasions,  to  induce  his  son  to  comeback  to  his  native 
country,  and  to  fill  with  honour  the  post  to  which  fortune  had  advanced  him. 
He  did  not  doubt  that  Horatio  would  himself  feel  the  force  of  his  new  duties  ; 
but  it  would  be  clenching  his  purpose,  and  paying  an  agreeable  compliment 
to  Clorinda,  to  make  this  journey,  and  to  bring  them  back  with  him  when 
he  returned.  Whatever  Mrs.  Saville's  distaste  to  England  might  be,  it  must 
yield  to  the  necessity  that  rtow  drew  her  thither.  Lord  Maristow  could  not 
imagine  any  resistance  so  violent  as  to  impede  his  wishes.  The  projected 
journey  charmed  his  daughters,  saddened  as  they  were  by  their  recent  loss. 
Lucy  was  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  her  beloved  brother.  She  felt 
sure  that  Clorinda  would  he  brought  to  reason,  and  thus,  with  their  hearts 
set  upon  one  object,  one  idea,  they  bade  adieu  to  Ethel  and  her  husband,  as 
if  their  career  was  to  be  as  sunny  and  as  prosperous  as  they  doubted  not 
that  their  own  would  be. 

Lord  Maristow  alone  guessed  how  things  might  stand.  "  Edward,  my 
dear  boy,"  he  said,  "  give  me  credit  for  great  anxiety  on  your  account.  I 
wish  this  marriage  of  yours  had  not  taken  place,  then  you  might  have 
roughed  it  as  other  young  men  do,  and  have  been  the  better  for  a  little  tart 
experience.  I  do  not  like  this  shuffjing  on  your  father's  part.  I  hear  for  a 
certainty  that  this  marriage  of  his  will  come  to  nothing  —  the  friends  of  the 
young  lady  are  against  it,  and  she  is  very  young,  and  only  an  heiress  by 
courtesy  —  her  father  can  give  her  as  many  tens  of  thousands  as  he  pleases, 
but  he  has  sworn  not  to  give  her  a  shilling  if  she  marries  without  his  con- 
sent ;  and  he  has  forbidden  Colonel  Villiers  his  house.  He  still  continues 
at  Cheltenham,  and  assures  every  one  that  he  is  on  safe  ground  ;  that  the 
girl  loves  him,  and  that  when  once  his,  the  father  must  yield.  It  is  too 
ridiculous  to  see  him  playing  a  boy-lover's  part  at  his  time  of  life,  trying  to 
undermine  a  daughter's  sense  of  duty  —  he,  who  may  soon  be  a  grandfather  ! 
The  poor  little  thing,  I  am  told,  is  quite  fascinated  by  his  dashing  manners 
and  station  in  society.  We  shall  see  how  it  will  end  —  I  fear  ill ;  her  father 
mi^ht  pardon,  a  runaway  match  with  a  lover  of  her  own  age  ;  but  he  will 
never  forgive  the  cold-blooded  villany,  excuse  me,  of  a  man  of  three  times 
her  age  ;  who  for  gain,  and  gain  only,  is  seeking  to  steal  her  from  him. 
Such  is  the  sum  of  what  I  am  told  by  a  friend  of  mine,  just  arrived  from 
Cheltenham.  The  whole  thing  is  the  farce  of  the  day,  and  the  stolen  inter- 
views of  the  lovers,  and  the  loud,  vulgarly-spoken  denunciations  of  her 
father,  vary  the  scene  from  a  travestie  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  to  the  comedies 
of  Plautus'or  Moliere.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Edward,  for  my  frankness,  but 
I  am  angry.  I  have  been  used  as  a  cat's-paw  —  I  have  been  treated  un- 
fairly—  I  was  told  that  the  marriage  wanted  but  your  signature  —  my  rep- 
resentations induced  you  to  offer  to  Miss  Fitzhenry,  and  now  you  are  a 
ruined  man.  I  am  hampered  by  my  own  family,  and  cannot  come  forward 
to  your  assistance.  My  advice  is  that  you  wait  a  little,  and  see  what  turn 
matters  take  j  once  decided,  however  they  conclude,  strong  representations 


LODORE.  J3S 

shall  be  made  to  your  father,  and  he  shall  be  forced  to  render  proper  assist- 
ance ;  then  if  politics  take  a  berter  turn,  I  may  do  something  for  you  —  or 
you  can  live  abroad  till  better  times/' 

Villiers  thanked  Lord  Vlanstow  for  his  advice,  and  made  no  remarks 
either  on  his  details  or  promises.  He  saw  his  own  fare  stretched  drearily 
before  him  ;  but  his  pride  made  him  strong  to  bear  without  any  outward 
signs  of  wincing.  He  would  suffer  all,  conceal  all,  and  be  pitied  by  none. 
The  thought  of  Ethel  alone  made  him  weak.  Were  she  sheltered  during 
the  storm  which  he  saw  gathering  so  darkly,  he  would  have  felt  satisfied. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  To  go  abroad,  was  to  encounter  beggary  and 
famine.  To  remain,  exposed  him  to  a  thousand  insults  and  dangers  from 
which  there  was  no  escap3.  Such  were  the  whisperings  of  despair — but 
brighter  hopes  often  visited  him.  All  could  not  be  so  evil  as  it  seemed. 
Fortune,  so  long  his  enemy,  would  yield  at  last  one  inch  of  ground  —  one 
inch  to  stand  upon  where  he  might  wait  in  patience  for  better  days.  Had  he 
in  leed  done  his  utmost  to  avert  the  calamities  he  apprehended  ?  Certainly 
not.  Thus  spoke  his  sanguine  spirit:  more  could  and  should  be  done. 
His  father  might  find  means,  he  himself  be  enabled  to  arrange  with  his 
lawyer  some  mode  of  raising  a  sum  of  money  which  would  at  least  enable 
him  to  go  on  the  continent  with  his  wife.  He  spent  his  thoughts  in  wishes 
for  the  attainment  of  this  desirable  conclusion  to  his  adversity,  till  the  very 
earnestness  of  his  expectations  seemed  to  promise  their  realization.  It 
could  not  be  that  the  worst  would  come.  Absurd !  Something  must 
happen  to  assist  them.  Seeking  for  this  unknown  something,  which,  in 
spite  of  all  his  efforts,  would  take  no  visible  or  tangible  form,  he  spent 
weary  days  and  sleepless  nights,  his  brain  spinning  webs  of  thought,  not 
like  those  of  the  spider,  useful  to  their  weaver — atang'ed  skein  they  were 
rather,  where  the  clue  was  inextricably  hid.  He  did  not  speak  of  these 
things  to  Ethel,  but  he  grew  sad,  and  she  was  anxious  to  go  out  of  town, 
to  have  him  all  to  herself,  when  she  promised  herself  to  dispel  his  gloom  ; 
and,  as  she  darkly  guessed  at  the  source  of  his  disquietude,  by  economy 
and  a  system  of  rigid  privtaion,  to  show  him  how  willing  and  able  she  was 
to  meet  the  adversity  which  he  so  much  dreaded. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

The  pure,  the  open,  prosperous  love, 
That,  pleaded  on  earth,  and  sealed  above, 
Grows  in  the  world's  approving  eyes, 

In  friendship's  smile,  and  homes's  caress, 
Collecting  all  the  heart's  sweet  ties 

Into  one  knot  of  happiness. 

Lalla  Rookh. 

Another  month  withered  away  in  fruitless  expectation.  Villiers  felt 
that  he  was  following  an  ignis  fatuus,  yet  knew  not  how  to  give  up  his 
pursuit.  At  length,  he  listened  more  docilely  to  Ethel's  representations  of 
the  expediency  of  quitting  town.  She  wished  to  pay  her  long-promised 
visit  to  her  aunt,  and  Villiers  at  last  consented  to  accompany  her.  They 
gave  up  their  house,  dispersed  a  tolerably  numerous  establishment,  and 
left  town  for  their  sober  and  rural  seclusion  in  Essex. 

Taken  from  the  immediate  scene  where  care  met  him  at  every  turn,  Ed- 
ward s  spirits  rose  ;  and  the  very  tranquillity  and  remoteness  of  Longfield 
became  a  relief  and  an  enjoyment.  It  was  bright  October  weather.  The 
fields  were  green,  the  hedges  yet  in  verdant  trim.  The  air  was  so  still  that 
33—4 


134  LODORE. 

the  dead  leaves  hung  too  lazy  to  fall,  from  the  topmost  bough  of  the  earlier 
trees.  The  oak  was  still  dressed  in  a  dark  sober  green  —  the  fresh  July 
shoot,  having  lost  its  summer  hue,  was  unapparent  among  the  foliage; 
the  varying  tints  of  beech,  ash,  and  elm,  diversified  the  woods.  The  mor- 
ning and  evpnmg  skies  were  resplendent  with  crimson  and  gold,  and  the 
moonlight  nights  were  sweeter  than  the  day. 

Fatigued  by  the  hurry  of  the  town,  and  one*  at  least  worn  out  with  care, 
the  young  pair  took  a  new  lease  of  love  in  idleness  in  this  lonely  spot.     A 
slight  attack  of  rheumatism  confined  Aunt  Bessy  to  her  chimney-corner, 
but  in  spite  of  her  caution  to  Ethel  not  to  incur  the  same  penalty  from  all 
the  array  of  wet  walks  and  damp  shoes,  it  was  her  best  pleasure  each 
morning  to  tie  on  her  bonnet,  take  her  husband's  arm,  and  they  wandered 
away  together,  returning  only  to  find  their  horses  ready,  and  then  they 
departed  for  hours,  coming  back  late  and  unwillingly  after  the  sun  was 
down.     Mrs.  Elizabeth  wondered  where  all  the  beautiful  spots  were,  which 
Ethel  described  so  enthusiastically  as  to  be  found  in  the  neighbourhood. 
The  good  lady  longed  to  go  out  herself  to  see  if  she  could  not  reap  equal 
delight>from  viewing  the  grouping  of  trees,  whose  various  autumnal  tints 
were  painted  in  Ethel's  speech  with  hues  too  bright  for  earth,  or  to  discover 
what  there  could  be  so  extraordinarily  picturesque  in  a  moss-grown  cottage, 
near  a  brook,  with  a  high  bank  clothed  with  wood  behind,  which  she  be- 
lieved must  be  one  Dame  Nixon's  cottage,  in  the  Vale  of  Bewling,  and 
which  she  knew  she  must  have  passed  a  thousand  times,  and  yet  she  had 
never  noticed  its  Deauty.     Very  often  Ethel  could  give  no  information  of 
whither  they  had  been,  only  they  had  lost  themselves  in  majestic  woods, 
lingered  in  winding  lanes,  which  led  to  resplendent  views,  or  even  reached 
the  margin  of  the  barren  sea,  to  behold  the  enveloping  atmosphere  reflected 
in  its  fitful  mirror —  to  watch  the  progress  of  evanescent  storms,  or  to  see 
the  moon  light  up  her  silvery  pathway  on  the  dusky  waste.     Villiers  took 
his  gun  with  him  in  his  walks ;  but,  though  American  bred,  Ethel  was  so 
unfeignedly  distressed  by  the  sight  of  death,  that  he  never  brought  down  a 
bird  :  he  shot  in  its  direction  now  and  then,  to  keep  his  pointer  in  practice, 
and  to  laugh  at  his  wife's  glad  triumph  when  he  missed  his  feathery  mark. 
Ethel  was  especially -delighted  to  renew  her  acquaintance  with  Long- 
field,  her  father's  boyhood  home,  under  such  sunny  circumstances.     She 
had  loved  it  before  :  with  anguish  in  her  heart,  and  heavy  sadness  weigh- 
ing on  her  steps,  she  had  loved  it  for  his  sake.     But  now  that  it  became  the 
home,  the  dedicated   garden  of  love,  it  received  additional  beauty  in  her 
eyes  from  its  association  with  the  memory  of  Lord  Lodore.     All  things 
conjoined  ;  the  season,  calmed  and  brightened,  as  if  for  her  especial  enjoy- 
ment ;  remembrance  of  the  past,  and  the  undivided  possession  of  her  Ed- 
ward's society,  combined  to  steep  her  soul  in  happiness.     Even  he,  whose 
more  active  and  masculine  spirit  might  have  fretted  in  solitude  and  sloth, 
was  subdued  by  care  and  uncertainty  to  look  on  the  peace  of  the  present 
moment  as  the  dearest  gift  of  the  gods.     Both  so  young,  and  the  minds  ol 
both  open  as  day  to  each  other's  eyes,  no  singie  blot  obscured  their  inter- 
course.    They  never  tired  of  each  other,  and  the  teeming  spirit  of  youth 
filled  the  empty  space  of  each  hour  as  it  came,  with  a  new  growth  of  senti- 
ments and  ideas.     The  long  evening  had  its  pleasures,  with  its  close-drawn 
curtains  and  cheerful  fire.     Even  whist  with  the  white-haired  parson,  and 
Mrs.  Fitzhenry  in  her  spectacles,  imparted  pleasure.     Could  any  thing 
duller  have  been  devised,  which  would  have  been  difficult,  it  had  not  been 
so  to  them  ;  and  a  stranger  coming  in  and  seeing  their  animated  looks,  and 
hearing  their  cheerful  tones  and  light-hearted  laugb,  must  have  envied  the 
very  Elysium  of  delight,  which  Aunt  Bessy's  usually  so  sober  drawing- 
room  contained.     Merely  to  see  Ethel  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm,  and 
ooking  up  in  his  face  as  he  drew  her  yet  closer,  and,  while  his  fingers  were 


LODORE.  135 

twined  araon*  her  silken  ringlets,  kissed  so  fondly  her  fair  brow,  must  have 
demonstrated  to  a  worldling  the  irrefragable  truth  that  happiness  is  born 
a  twin,  love  being  the  parent. 

The  beauty  of  a  pastoral  picture  has  but  short  duration  in  this  cloudy 
land  — and  happiness,  the  sun  of  our  moral  existence,  is  yet  more  fitful  in 
its  visitations.  Villiers  and  his  young  wife  took  their  accustomed  ride 
throuih  shady  lanes  and  copses,  and  through  parks,  where,  though  the 
magnificent  features  of  nature  were  wanting,  the  eye  was  delighted  by  a 
varied  prospect  of  wood  and  lawny  upland.  The  soft  though  wild  west 
wind  drove  along  vast  masses  of  snowy  clouds,  which  displayed  in  their 
intervals  the  deep  stainless  azure  of  the  boundless  sky.  The  shadows  of 
the  clouds  now  darkened  the  pathway  of  our  riders,  and  now  they  saw  the 
sunlight  advance  from  a  distance,  coming  on  with  steps  of  light  and  air, 
till  it  reached  them,  and  they  felt  the  warmth  and  gladness  of  sunshine  de- 
scend on  them.  The  various  coloured  woods  were  now  painted  brightly 
in  the  beams,  and  now  half  lost  in  shadow.  There  was  life  and  action 
everywhere  —  yet  not  the  awakening  activity  of  spring,  but  rather  a  vague, 
uneasy  restlessness,  allied  to  languor,  and  pregnant  with  melancholy. 

Villiers  was  silent  and  sad.  Ethel  too  well  knew  the  cause  wherefore 
he  was  dispirited.  He  had  received  letters  that  morning  which  stung 
him  into  a  perception  of  the  bitter  realities  which  were  gathering  about 
tham.  One  was  to  say  that  no  communication  had  been  received  from 
his  father,  but  that  it  was  believed  that  he  was  somewhere  in  London  — 
the  other  was  from  his  banker,  to  remind  him  that  he  had  overdrawn  his 
credit  —  nearly  the  most  disagreeable  intelligence  a  man  can  hear  when 
he  possesses  no  immediate  means  of  replenishing  his  drained  purse. 
Ethel  was  grieved  to  see  him  pained,  but  she  could  not  acutely  feel  these 
pecuniary  distresses.  She  tried  to  divert  his  thoughts  by  conversation,  and 
pointing  out  the  changes  which  the  advancing  season  made  in  the  aspect  of 
the  country. 

"  Yes,"  said  Villiers,  "  it  is  a  beautiful  world  ;  poets  tell  us  this,  and 
religious  men  have  drawn  an  argument  for  their  creed  from  the  wisdom 
and  loveliness  displayed  in  the  external  universe,  which  speaks  to  ever)' 
heart  and  every  understanding.  The  azure  canopy  fretted  wilh  golden 
lights,  or,  as  now,  curtained  by  wondrous  shapes,  which,  though  they  are 
akin  to  earth,  yet  partake  the  glory  of  the  sky  —  the  green  expanse,  varie- 
gated by  streams,  teeming  with  life,  and  prolific  of  food  to  sustain  that 
life,  and  that  very  food  the  chief  cause  of  the  beauty  we  enjoy —  with  such 
magnificence  has  the  Creator  set  forth  our  table  —  all  this,  and  the  winds 
that  fan  us  so  balmily,  and  the  flowers  that  enchant  our  sight — do  not  all 
these  make  earth  a  type  of  heaven  V 

Ethel  turned  her  eyes  on  him  to  read  in  his  face  the  expression  of  the 
enthusiasm  and  enjoyment  that  seemed  to  dictate  his  words.  But  his 
countenance  was  gloomy,  and  as  he  continued  to  speak,  his  expressions 
took  more  the  colour  of  his  uneasy  feelings.  "How  false  and  senseless 
all  this  really  is  !''  he  pursued.  "  Find  a  people  who  truly  make  earth,  its 
woods  and  fells,  and  inclement  sky,  their  unadorned  dwelling-place,  who 
pluck  the  spontaneous  fruits  of  the  soil,  or  sla}7  the  animals  as  they  find 
them,  attending  neither  to  culture  nor  property,  and  we  give  them  the 
name  of  barbarians  and  savages  —  untaught,  uncivilized,  miserable  beings 
—  and  we,  the  wiser  and  more  refined,  hunt  and  exterminate  them :  — we, 
who  sp<md  so  many  words,  either  as  preachers  or  philosophers,  to  vaunt 
that  with  which  they  are  satisfied,  we  feel  ourselves  the  greater,  the  wiser, 
the  nobler,  the  more  barriers  we  place  between  ourselves  and  Nature,  the 
more  completely  we  cut  ourselves  off  from  her  generous  but  simple  munifi- 
cence." 

"But  is  this  necessary  ?"  asked  the  forest-bred  girl:  "when  I  lived  in 


136  LODORE. 

the  wilds  of  the  Illinois  —  the  simplest  abode,  food,  and  attire,  were  all  1 
knew  of  human  refinements,  and  I  was  satisfied." 

Villiers  did  not  appear  to  heed  her  remark,  but  continued  the  train  of  his 
own  reflections.  "  The  first  desire  of  man  is  not  for  wealth  or  luxury, 
but  for  sympathy  and  applause.  He  desires  to  remove  to  thefaithest 
extremity  of  the  world  contempt  and  degradation ;  and  according  to  the 
ideas  of  the  society  in  which  he  is  bred,  so  are  his  desires  fashioned. 
We,  the  most  civilized,  high-bred,  prosperous  people  in  the  world,  make 
no  account  of  nature,  unless  we  add  the  ideas  of  possession,  and  of  the 
labours  of  man.  We  rate  each  individual,  (and  we  all  desire  to  be  rated 
as  individuals,  distinct  from  and  superior  to  the  mass,)  not  by  himself,  but 
by  his  house,  his  park,  his  income.  This  is  a  trite  observation,  yet  it  ap- 
pears new  when  it  comes  home :  what  is  lower,  humbler,  more  despicable 
than  a  poor  man  ?  Give  him  learning,  give  him  goodness —  see  him  with 
manners  acquired  in  poverty,  habits  died  in  the  dusky  hues  of  penury  ;  and 
if  we  do  not  despise  him,  yet  we  do  not  admit,  him  to  our  tables  or  society. 
Refinement  may  only  be  the  varnish  of  the  picture,  yet  it  is  necessary  to 
make  apparent  to  the  vulgar  eye  even  the  beauties  of  Eaphael." 

"  To  the  vulgar  eye  !"  repeated  Ethel,  emphatically. 

"And  I  seem  one  of  those,  by  the  way  I  speak,"  said  Edward,  smiling. 
"Yet,  indeed,  I  do  not  despise  any  man  for  being  poor,  except  myself.  I 
can  feel  pride  in  showing  honour  where  honour  is  due,  even  though  clad  in 
the  uncouth  and  forbidding  garb  of  plebeianism  ;  but  I  cannot  claim  this 
for  myself —  I  cannot  demand  the  justice  of  men,  which  they  would  nick- 
name pity.     The  Illinois  would  be  preferable  far." 

"And  the  Illinois  might  be  a  paradise,"  said  Ethel. 

"  We  hope  for  a  better  —  we  hope  for  Ttaly.  Do  you  remember  Rome 
and  the  Coliseum,  my  love  ?  — Naples,  the  Chiaja,  and  San  Carlo  ?  —  these 
were  better  than  the  savannas  of  the  west.  Our  hopes  are  good  ;  it  is  the 
present  only  which  is  so  thorny,  so  worse  than  barren :  like  the  souls  ot 
Dante,  we  have  a  fiery  pass  to  get  through  before  we  reach  our  place  oi 
bliss  ;  that  we  have  it  in  prospect  will  gift  us  with  fortitude.  Meanwhile 
I  must  string  myself  to  my  task.  Ethel,  dearest,  I  shall  go  to  town  to- 
morrow." 

"  And  1  with  you,  surely  ?" 

"  Do  not  ask  it ;  this  is  your  first  lesson  in  the  lore  you  were  so  ready  to 
learn,  of  bearing  all  for  me ." 

"  With  you,"  interrupted  his  wife. 

"  With  me  —  it  shall  soon  be,"  replied  Edward  ;  "  but  to  speak  accord- 
ing to  the  ways  of  this  world,  my  presence  in  London  is  necessary  for  a 
few  days  —  for  a  very  few  days  ;  a  journey  there  and  back  for  me  is  nothing, 
but  it  would  be  a  real  and  useless  expense  if  you  went.  Indeed,  Ethel, 
you  must  submit  to  my  going  without  you —  I  ask  it  of  you,  and  you  will 
not  refuse." 

"  A  few  days,  you  say,"  answered  Ethel  —  "a  very  few  days ?  It  is 
hard.  But  you  will  not  be  angry,  if  I  should  join  you  if  your  return  is  de- 
layed ?" 

"You  will  not  be  so  mad,"  said  Villiers.  "I  go  with  a  light  heart,  be- 
cause I  leave  you  in  security  and  comfort.  I  will  return  —  I  need  not  pro- 
test—  you  know  that  I  shall  return  the  moment  I  can.  I  speak  of  a  few 
days  ;  it  cannot  be  a  week  :  letme  go  then,  with  what  satisfaction  I  may, 
to  the  den  of  darkness  and  toil,  and  not  be  further  annoyed  by  the  fear  that 
you  will  not  support  my  absence  with  cheerfulness.  As  you  love  me,  wait 
for  me  with  patience  —  remain  with  your  aunt  till  I  return." 

"  I  will  stay  for  a  week,  if  it  must  be  so,"  replied  Ethel. 

"  Indeed,  my  love,  it  must  —  nor  will  I  task  you  beyond  —  before  a  week 
s  gone  by,  you  shall  see  me." 


LODORE.  137 

Ethel  looked  wistfully  at  him,  but  said  no  more.  She  thought  it  hard  — 
she  did  not  think  it  right  that  he  should  go  —  that  he  should  toil  and  suffer 
without  her  ;  but  she  had  no  words  for  argument  or  contention,  so  she 
yielded.  The  next  morning  —  a  cold  but  cheerful  morning  —  at  seven 
o  clock,  she  drove  over  with  him  in  Mrs.  Fitzhenry's  little  pony  chaise  to 
the  town,  four  miles  off,  through  which  the  stages  passed.  A  first  parting 
is  a  kind  of  landmark  in  life  —  a  starting  post  whence  we  begin  our  career 
out  of  illusion  and  the  land  of  dreams,  into  reality  and  endurance.  They 
arrived  not  a  moment  too  soon  :  she  had  yet  a  thousand  things  to  say  — 
one  or  two  very  particular  things,  which  she  had  reserved  for  the  last  mo- 
ment :  there  was  no  time,  and  she  was  forced  to  concentrate  all  her  injunc- 
tions into  one  word,  *'  Write  !" 

"  Every  day  —  and  do  you." 

"  It  will  be  my  only  pleasure,"  replied  his  wife.  "  Take  care  of  your- 
self." 

He  was  on  the  top  of  the  stage  and  gone  ;  and  Ethel  felt  that  a  blank 
loneliness  had  swallowed  up  the  dearest  joy  of  her  life. 

She  drew  her  cloak  round  her  —  she  gazed  along  the  road  —  there  were 
no  traces  of  him  —  she  gave  herself  up  to  thought,  and  as  he  wastheooject 
of  all  her  thoughts,  this  was  her  best  consolation.  She  reviewed  the  happy 
days  they  had  spent  together —  she  dwelt  on  the  memory  of  his  unalterable 
affection  and  endearing  kindness,  and  then  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes. 
"  Will  any  ill  ever  befall  him  ?"  she  thought.  "  Oh  no,  none  ever  can  !  ne 
must  be  rewarded  for  his  goodness  and  his  love.  How  dear  he  ought  to 
be  to  me  !  Did  he  not  take  the  poor  friendless  girl  from  solitude  and  grief; 
and  disdaining  neither  her  poverty  nor  her  orphan  state,  give  her  himself, 
his  care,  his  affection  ?  Oh,  my  Edward  !  what  would  Ethel  have  been 
without  you  ?  Her  father  was  gone  —  her  mother  repulsed  her —  she  was 
alone  in  the  wide  world,  till  you  generously  made  her  your  own  .r" 

With  the  true  enthusiasm  of  passion,  Ethel  delighted  to  magnify  the 
benefits  she  had  received,  and  to  make  those  which  she  herself  conferred 
nothing,  that  gratitude  and  love  might  become  yet  stronger  duties.  In  her 
heart,  though  she  reproached  herself  for  what  she  termed  selfishness,  she 
could  not  regret  his  poverty  and  difficulties,  if  thus  she  should  acquire  an 
opportunity  of  being  useful  to  him  ;  but  she  felt  herself  defrauded  of  her 
best  privileges,  of  serving  and  consoling,  by  their  separation. 

Thus, — now  congratulating  herself  on  her  husband's  attachment,  now 
repining  at  the  fate  that  divided  them,  —  agitated  by  various  emotions  too 
sweet  and  bitter  for  words,  she  returned  to  Longfield.  Aunt  Bessy  was 
in  her  arm-chair,  waiting  for  her  to  begin  breakfast.  Edward's  seat  was 
empty  —  his  cup  was  not  placed  —  he  was  omitted  in  the  domestic  arrange- 
ments ;  —  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes  ;  and  in  vain  trying  to  calm  herself, 
she  sobbed  aloud.  Aunt  Bessy  was  astonished  ;  and  when  all  the  explana- 
tion she  got  was,  "He  is  gone  !"  she  congratulated  herself,  that  her  single 
state  had  spared  her  the  endurance  of  these  conjugal  distresses. 


238 


LODORE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen, 
What  old  December's  bareness  every  where  ! 

Skakspeare. 

Ethel  cheered  herself  to  amuse  her  aunt ;  and,  as  in  her  days  of  hope- 
less love,  she  tried  to  shorten  the  hours  by  occupation.  It  was  difficult  ; 
for  all  her  thoughts  were  employed  in  conjectures  as  to  where  Edward  was. 
what  doing  —  in  looking  at  her  watch,  and  following  in  her  rriind  all  his 
actions  —  or  in. meditating  how  hereafter  she  might  remedy  any  remissness 
on  her  part,  (so  tender  was  her  conscience,)  and  best  contribute  to  his  hap- 
piness. Such  reveries  beguiled  many  hours,  and  enabled  her  to  endure 
with  some  show  of  courage  the  pains  of  absence.  Each  day  she  heard  from 
him  —  each  day  she  wrote,  and  this  entire  pouring  out  of  herself  on  paper 
formed  the  charm  of  her  existence.  She  endeavoured  to  persuade  him  how 
fortunate  their  lot  might  hereafter  be  —  how  many  of  his  fears  were  un- 
founded or  misplaced. 

"  Remember,  dearest  love,"  she  said,  "  that  I  have  nothing  of  the  fine 
lady  about  me.  I  do  not  even  feel  the  want  of  those  luxuries  so  necessary 
to  most  women.  This  I  owe  to  my  father.  It  was  his  first  care,  while  he 
brought  me  up  in  the  most  jealous  retirement,  to  render  me  independent  of 
the  services  of  others.  Solitude  is  to  me  no  evil,  and  the  delight  of  my  life 
would  be  to  wait  upon  you.  I  am  not  therefore  an  object  of  pity,  when  for- 
tune deprives  me  of  the  appertenances  of  wealth,  which  rather  annoy  than 
serve  me.  My  devotion  and  sacrifice,  as  you  are  pleased  to  call  the  intense 
wish  of  my  heart  to  contribute  to  your  happiness,  are  nothing.  I  sacrifice 
all,  when  I  give  up  one  hour  of  your  society —  there  is  the  sting  —  there  the 
merit  of  my  permitting  you  to  go  without  me.  I  can  ill  bear  it.  I  am  im- 
patient and  weak  ;  do  not,  then,  Edward  dearest,  task  me  too  far  —  recall 
me  to  your  side,  if  your  return  is  delayed  —  recall  your  fond  girl  to  the 
place  near  your  heart,  where  she  desires  to  remain  for  ever." 

Vihiers  answered  with  few  but  expressive  words  of  gratitude  and  fidelity. 
His  letters  breathed  disappointment  and  anxiety.  "  It  is  too  true,'"  he  said, 
"  as  I  found  it  announced  when  I  first  came  to  town,  my  father  is  married. 
He  got  the  banns  published  in  an  obscure  church  in  London  ;  he  persuaded 
Miss  Gregory  to  elope  with  him,  and  they  are  married.  Her  father  is  furi- 
ous, he  returns  every  letter  unopened  ;  his  house  and  heart,  he  says,  are  still 
open  to  his  daughter  —  but  the  — ■ — ,  I  will  not  repeat  his  words,  who  stole 
her  from  him,  shall  never  benefit  by  a  shilling  of  his  money  —  let  her  return 
and  all  shall  be  pardoned  —  let  her  remain  with  her  husband,  and  starve,  he 
cares  not.  My  father  has  spent  much  time  and  more  money  on  this  pur- 
suit :  in  the  hope  of  securing;  many  thousands,  he  raised  hundreds  at  a  prod- 
igal and  ruinous  interest,  which  must  now  be  paid.  He  has  not  ten  pounds 
in  the  world  —  so  he  says.  My  belief  is,  that  he  is  going  abroad  to  secure 
to  himself  the  payment  of  the  scanty  remnant  of  his  income.  I  have  no 
hopes.  I  would  beg  at  the  corner  of  a  street,  rather  than  apply  to  a  man 
who  never  has  been  a  parent  to  me,  and' whose  last  act  is  that  of  a  villain. 
Excuse  me  ;  you  will  be  angry  that  I  speak  thus  of  my  father,  but  I  know 
that  he  speaks  of  the  poor  girl  he  has  deluded,  with  a  bitterness  and  insult, 
which  prove  what  his  views  were  in  marrying  her.  In  this  moment  of 
absolute  beggary,  my  only  resource  is  to  raise  money.     I  believe  I  shall 


I.ODORE.  139 

succeed  ;  and  the  moment  I  have  put  things  in  train,  with  what  heartfelt, 
what  unspeakable  joy,  shall  I  leave  this  miserable  place  for  my  own  Ethel's 
side   long  to  remain  !" 

Villiers's  letters  varied  little,  but.  yet  they  got  more  desponding  ;  and  Ethel 
grew  very  impatient  to  see  him  again.  She  had  counted  the  days  of  her 
week  —  th  ;y  were  fulfilled,  and  her  husband  did  not  return.  Every  thing 
depended,  he  said,  on  his  presence;  and  he  must  remain  yet  for  another 
day  or  two.  At  first  he  implored  her  to  be  patient.  He  besought  her,  as 
she  loved  him,  to  endure  their  separation  yet  for  a  few  more  days.  His  let- 
ters were  very  short,  but  all  in  this  style.  They  were  imperative  with  his 
wife  —  she  obeyed  ;  yet  she  did  so,  she  told  him  against  her  will  and  against 
her  sense  of  right.  She  ought  to  be  at.  his  side  to  cheer  him  under  his  diffi- 
culties. She  had  married  him  because  she  loved  him,  and  because  the 
first  and  only  wish  of  her  heart  was  to  conduce  to  his  happiness.  To  travel 
together,  to  enjoy  society  and  the  beauties  of  nature  in  each  other's  society, 
were  inleed  blessings,  and  she  valued  them  ;  but  there  was  another  dearer 
still,  of  which  she  felt  herself  defrauded,  and  for  which  she  yearned.  **  The 
ai  n  of  my  life,  and  its  only  real  joy,"  she  said,  "  is  to  make  your  existence 
happier  than  it  would  have  been  without  me.  When  I  know  and  feel  that 
such  a  moment  or  hour  has  been  passed  by  you  with  sensations  of  pleasure, 
and  that  th  -oui;h  me,  I  have  fulfilled  the  purpose  of  my  destiny.  Deprived  of 
tin  opportunity  to  accomplish  this,  1  am  bereft  of  that  for  which  I  breathe. 
You  speak  as  if  [  were  better  off  here  than  if  I  shared  the  inconveniences 
of  your  lot  — is  not  this  strange  language,  my  own  Edward  ?  You  talk  of 
seeu-ity  and  comfort;  where  can  1  be  so  secure  as  near  you?  And  for 
comfort!  what  heart-elevating  joy  it  would  be  to  exchange  this  barren, 
meager  scene  of  absence,  for  the  delight,  the  comfort  of  seeing  you,  ot 
waiting  on  you!  I  do  not  ask  you  to  hasten  your  return,  so  as  to  injure 
your  prospects,  but  permit  me  to  join  you.  Would  not  London  itself,  dis- 
mal as  you  describe  it,  become  sunny  and  glad,  if  Ethel  were  with  you  ?" 

To  these  adjurations  Villiers  scarcely  replied.  Time  crept  on  ;  three 
weeks  had  already  elapsed.  Now  and  then  a  day  intervened,  and  he  did 
not  write,  and  his  wife's  anxiety  grew  to  an  intolerable  pitch.  She  did  not 
for  an  instant  suspect  his  faith,  but  she  feared  that  he  must  be  utterly  mis- 
erable, since  he  shrunk  from  communicating  his  feelings  to  her.  His  last 
letter  was  brief;  "  have  just  come  from  my  solicitor,"  he  said,  "  and  have 
but  time  to  say,  that  I  must  go  there  again  to-morrow,  so  T  shall  not  be  with 
you.  Oh,  the  heavy  hours  in  this  dark  prison  !  You  will  reward  me  and 
make  me  forget  them  when  I  see  you  —  but  how  shall  I  pass  the  time  till 
than!" 

These  words  made  Ethel  conceive  the  idea  of  joining  him  in  town.  He 
would  not,  he  could  not  be  angry  ?  He  could  not  bring  his  mind  to  ask  her 
to  share  his  discomforts  —  but.  ought  she  not  to  volunteer —  to  insist  upon 
his  permitting  her  to  come  ?  Permit!  the  same  pride  that  prevented  his 
asking,  would  induce  him  to  refuse  her  request;  but  should  she  do  wrong, 
if,  wit'iout  his  express  permission,  she  were  to  join  him?  A  thrill,  half  fear, 
half  transport,  made  her  heart's  blood  stand  still  at  the  thought.  The  day 
after  this  last,  she  got  no  letter  ;  the  following  day  was  Monday,  and  there 
would  be  no  post  from  town.  Her  resolution  was  taken,  and  she  told  her 
aunt  that  she  should  go  up  to  London  the  following  day.  Mrs.  Elizabeth 
knew  little  of  the  actual  circumstances  of  the  youn^  pair.  Villiers  had 
made  it  an  express  condition,  that  she  should  not  be  informed  of  their  diffi- 
culties, for  he  was  resolute  not  to  take  from  her  little  store,  which,  in  the  way 
she  lived,  was  sufficient,  yet  barely  so,  for  her  wants.  She  did  not  question 
her  niece  as  to  her  journey  ;  she  imagined  that  it  was  a  thins  arranged. 
But  Ethel  herself  was  full  of  perplexity  ;  she  remembered  what  Villiers  had 
said  of  expmse  ;  she  knew  that  he  would  be  deeply  hurt  if  she  used  a  pub- 


140  LODORE. 

lie  conveyance,  and  yet  to  go  post  would  consume  the  little  money  she  had 
left,  and  she  did  not  like  to  reach  London  pennyless.  She  began  to  talk  to 
her  aunt,  and  faltered  out  something  about  want  of  money  for  posting  — 
the  good  lady's  purse  was  instantly  in  her  hand.  Ethel  had  not  the  same 
horror  as  her  husband  of  pecuniary  obligation  —  she  was  too  inexperienced 
to  know  its  annoyances  ;  and  in  the  present  instance,  to  receive  a  small 
sum  from  her  aunt,  appeared  to  her  an  affair  that  did  not  merit  hesitation. 
She  took  twenty  pounds  for  her  journey,  and  felt  her  heart  lighter.  There 
yet  remained  another  question.  Hitherto  they  had  travelled  in  their  own 
carriage,  with  a  valet  and  lady's  maid.  Villiers  had  taken  his  servant  to 
town  with  him.  In  a  postscript  to  one  of  his  letters,  he  said,  "  I  was  able 
to  recommend  Laurie  to  a  good  place,  so  I  have  parted  with  him,  and  I 
shall  not  take  another  servant  at  this  moment."  Laurie  had  been  long  and 
faithfully  attached  to  her  husband,  who  had  never  lived  without  an  attend- 
ant, and  who,  from  his  careless  habits,  was  peculiarly  helpless.  Ethel  felt 
that  this  dismi^al  was  a  measure  of  economy,  and  that  she  ought  to  imi- 
tate it.  Still,  as  any  measure  to  be  taken  always  frightened  her,  she  had  not 
courage  to  discharge  her  maid,  but  resolved  to  go  up  to  town  without  her. 
Aunt  Bessy  was  shocked  at  her  going  alone,  but  Ethel  was  firm  ;  nothing 
could  happen  to  her,  and  she  should  prove  to  Edward  her  readiness  to  en- 
dure privation. 

On  Monday,  at  eleven  in  the  forenoon,  on  the  28th  of  November,  Ethel, 
having  put  together  but  a  few  things,  —  for  she  expected  a  speedy  return,  — 
stepped  into  her  travelling  chariot,  and  began  her  journey  to  town.  She  was 
all  delight  at  the  idea  of  seeing  Edward.  She  reproached  herself  for  hav- 
ing so  long  delayed  giving  this  proof  of  her  earnest  affection.  She  listened 
with  beaming  smiles  to  all  her  aunt's  injunctions  and  cautions  :  and,  the 
carriage  once  in  motion,  drawing  her  shawl  around  her,  as  she  sat  in  the 
corner,  looking  on  the  despoiled  yet  clear  prospect,  her  mind  was  filled  with 
the  most  agreeable  reveries — her  heart  soothed  by  the  dearest  anticipa- 
tions. 

To  pay  the  post-horses  —  to  gift  the  postillion  herself,  were  all  events  for 
her  :  she  felt  proud.  "  Edward  said,  I  must  begin  to  learn  the  ways  of  the 
world ;  and  this  is  my  first  lesson  in  economy  and  care,"  she  thought,  as  she 
pat  into  the  post-bo)''s  hand  just  double  the  sum  he  had  ever  received  before. 
"  And  how  good,  and  attentive,  and  willing  every  body  is  ?  I  am  sure 
women  can  very  well  travel  alone.  Every  one  is  respectful,  and  desirous 
to  serve,"  was  her  next  internal  remark,  as  she  undrew  her  little  silken 
purse,  to  give  a  waiter  a  half-crown,  who  had  brought  her  a  glass  of  wa- 
ter, and  whose  extreme  alacrity  struck  her  as  so  very  kind-hearted. 

Her  spirits  flagged  as  the  day  advanced.  In  spite  of  herself,  an  uneasy 
feeling  diffused  itself  through  her  mind,  when,  the  sun  going  down,  a  misty, 
ohiiiv  twilight  crept  over  the  landscape.  Had  she  done  right?  she  asked 
herself;  would  Edward  indeed  be  glad  to  see  her  ?  She  felt  half  frightened 
at  her  temerity  —  alarmed  at  the  length  of  her  journey  —  timid  when  she 
thought  of  the  vast  London  she  was  about  to  enter,  without  any  certain 
bourne.  She  supposed  that  Villiers  went  each  day  to  his  club,  and  she 
knew  that  he  lodged  in  Duke-street,  St.  James's  ;  but  she  was  ignorant  ot 
the  number  of  the  house,  and  the  street  itself  was  unknown  to  her  ;  she  did 
not  remember  ever  to  have  been  in  it  in  her  life. 

Her  carriage  entered  labyrinthine  London  by  Blackwall,  and  threaded 
the  wilds  of  Lothbury.  A  dense  and  ever- thickening  mist,  palpable,  yel- 
low, and  impervious  to  the  eye,  enveloped  the  whole  town.  Ethel  had 
heard  of  a  November  fog;  but  she  had  never  witnessed  one,  and  the  idea 
of  it  did  not  occur  to  her  memory  :  she  was  half  frightened,  thinking  that 
some  strange  phenomena  were  going  on,  and  fancying  that  her  postillion 
was  hurrying  forward  in  terror.     At  last,  in  Cheapside,  they  stopped 


LODOfcE.  141 

lammed  up  by  carts  and  coaches ;  and  then  she  contrived  to  make  herself 
heard,  asking  what  was  the  matter?  The  word  "  eclipse"  hung  upon  her 
lips.  ° 

"  Only,  ma'am,  the  street  has  got  blocked  up  like  in  the  fog  :  We  shall 
get  on  presently." 

The  word  "  fog  "  solved  the  mystery ;  and  again  her  thoughts  were  with 
Villiers.  What  a  horrible  place  for  him  to  live  in!  And  he  had  been 
enduring  all  this  wretchedness,  while  she  was  breathing  the  pure  atmos- 
phere of  the  country.  Again  they  proceeded  through  the  "murky  air," 
and  through  an  infinitude  of  mischances  ;  — the  noise — the  hubbub  —  the 
crow  1,  as  she  could  distinguish  it,  as  if  veiled  by  dirty  gauze,  by  the  liohtg 
in  the  shops  —  all  agitated  and  vexed  her.  Through  Fleet-street  and  the 
Strand  thev  went ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  their  progress  Would  never  come  to 
an  end.  The  whole  previous  journey  from  Longfield  was  short  in  com- 
parison to  this  tedious  procession  :  twenty  times  she  longed  to  get  out  and 
walk.  At  last  they  got  free,  and  with  a  quicker  pace  drove  up  to  the  door 
of  the  Union  Club,  in  Charing  Cross. 

The  post-bov  called  one  of  the  waiters  to  the  carriage  door;  and  Ethel 
asked  —  "  Is  Mr.  Villiers  here  ?» 

"  Mr.  Villiers,  ma'am,  has  left  town." 

Ethel  was  aghast.  She  had  watched  assiduously  along  the  road;  vet 
she  had  felt  certain  that  if  he  had  meant  to  come,  she  would  have  seen  him 
on  Sundav ;  and  till  this  moment,  she  had  not  entertained  a  real  doubt  but 
that  she  should  find  him.  She  asked  falteringl  ,  "  When  did  he  go  ?" 
"  Last  week,  ma'am  •  last  Tnursday,  I  think  it  was." 
Ethel  breathed  as;ain :  the  man's  information  must  be  false.  She  was 
too  inexperienced  to  be  aware  that  servants  and  common  people  have  a  sin- 
gular tact  in  selecting  the  most  unpleasant  intelligence,  and  being  very 
ale-t  in  communicating  it.  "Do  you  know,"  she  inquired,  "  where  Mr. 
Villiers  lodges  ?" 

"  C^n  t  say,  indeed,  ma'am  ;  but  the  porter  knows  ;  —  here.  Saunders !" 
No  Saunders  answered.  "  The  porter  is  not  in  the  way  ;  but  if  you  can 
wait,  ma'am,  he'll  be  back  presently." 

The  m  niter  disappeared:  the  post-bov  came  up  —  he  touched  his  hat. 
"  Wait,"  said  Ethel ;  —  "  we  must  wait  a  little  ;"  and  he  removed  himself 
tc  the  horses'  heads.  Ethel  sat  in  her  lonely  comer,  shrouded  by  fog  and 
darkness,  watching  every  face  as  it  passed  under  the  lamp  near,  fancying 
that  Edward  mi^ht  appear  amons  them.  The  ugly  faces  that  haunt,  in 
qu'ck  succession,  the  imagination  of  one  oppressed  by  nightmare,  might 
vie  with  those  that  passed  successively  in  review  before  Ethel.  Most  of 
them  hurried  on,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left.  Some  entered  the 
house;  some  glanced  at  her  carriage:  one  or  two,  perceiving  a  bonnet, 
evidently  questioned  the  waiter.  He  stood  there  for  her  own  service,  Ethel 
thought;  and  she  watched  ms  every  movement — his  successive  disappear- 
ances and  returns  —  the  people  he  talked  to.  Once  she  signed  to  him  to 
come  .-  but  —  "  No,  ma'am,  the  porter  is  not  comeback  yet,"  —  was  all  his 
answer.  At  last  after  having  stood,  half  whistling,  for  some  five  minutes, 
(it  apoearcd  to  Ethel  half-an-hour,)  without  having  received  any  visible 
con  nunication,  he  suddenly  came  up  to  the  carriage  door,  saying,  "The 
po»t  u-  couH  not  stay  to  speak  to  vou,  ma'am,  he  was  in  such  a  hurry.  He 
savs.  Mr.  Villip's  lodges  in  Duke-street,  St.  James's  :  he  should  know 
the  house,  but  has  forgotten  the  number." 

"  Then  I  must  wait  tdl  he  comes  back  again.     I  knew  all  that  before. 
Will  he  belong?" 

'•  A  long  time,  ma'am  ;  two  hours  at  least.  He  said  that  the  woman  of 
the  house  is  a  widow  woman  —  Mrs.  Derham." 


142  LODORE. 


Thus,  as  if  by  torture,  (but,  as  witb  tbe  whipping  boys  of  old,  hers  was 
the  torture,  not  the  delinquent's,)  Ethel  extracted  some  information  from 
the  stupid,  conceited  fellow.  On  she  went  to  Duke-street,  to  discover 
Mrs.  Derham's  residence.  A  few  wrong  doors  were  knocked  at ;  and  a 
beer-boy,  at  last,  was  the  Mercury  that  brought  the  impatient,  longing  wife, 
to  the  threshold  of  her  husband's  residence.  Happy  beer-boy  !  She  gave 
him  a  sovereign :  he  had  never  been  so  rich  in  his  life  before  j —  such  chance- 
medleys  do  occur  in  this  strange  world  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

0  my  reviving  joy  !  thy  quickening  presence 
Makes  the  sad  night 

Sit  like  ayouthrul  spring  upon  my  blood. 

1  cannot  make  thy  welcome  rich  enough 
With  all  the  wealth  of  words. 

MlDDLETON. 

The  boy  knocked  at  the  door.  A  servant- girl  opened  it.  "Does  Mr, 
Villiers  lodge  here  ?"  asked  the  postillion,  from  his  horse. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Open  the  door  quickly,  and  let  me  out !"  cried  Ethel,  as  her  heait  beat 
fast  and  loud. 

The  door  was  opened  —  the  steps  let  down  —  operations  tedious  beyond 
measure,  as  she  thought*  She  got  out,  and  was  in  the  hall,  going  up 
stairs. 

"  Mr.  Villiers  is  not  at  home,"  said  the  maid. 

Through  the  low  blinds  of  the  parlour  window,  Mrs.  Derham  had  been 
watching  what  was  going  on.  She  heard  what  her  servant  said,  and  now 
came  out.  "  Mr.  Villiers  is  not  at  home,"  she  reiterated  ;  "  will  you  leave 
any  message  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  will  wait  for  him.     Show  me  into  his  room." 

"1  am  afraid  that  it  is  locked,"  answered  Mrs.  Derham  repulsively: 
"  perhaps  you  can  call  again.     Who  shall  I  say  asked  for  him  ?" 

"  Oh  no  !"  cried  Ethel,  "  I  must  wait  for  him.  Will  you  permit  me  to 
wait  in  your  parlour  ?     1  am  Mrs.  Villiers." 

'■  1  beg  pardon,"  said  the  good  woman  ;  "  Mrs.  Villiers  is  in  the  country." 

"  And  so  I  am,"  replied  Ethel  —  "  at  least,  so  I  was  this  morning.  Don't 
you  see  my  travelling  carriage  ? —  look  ;  you  may  be  sure  that  I  am  Mrs. 
Villiers." 

She  took  out  of  her  little  bag  one  of  Edward's  letters,  with  the  perusal 
of  which  she  had  beguiled  much  of  her  way  to  town.  Mrs.  Derham  looked 
at  the  direction  —  "  The  Honourable  Mrs.  Villiers  ;"  —  her  countenance 
brightened.  Mrs.  Derham  was  a  little,  plump, 'well-preserved  woman  of 
fifty-four  or  five.  She  was  kind-hearted,  and  of  course  shared  the  worship 
for  rank  which  possesses  every  heart  born  within  the  four  seas.  She  was 
now  all  attention.  Villiers's  room  was  open  ;  he  was  expected  very  soon  ; 
—  "  He  is  so  seldom  out  in  an  evening  :  it  is  very  unlucky ;  but  he  must 
be  back  directly,"  said  Mrs.  Derham,  as  she  showed  the  way  up  the  nar- 
row staircase.  Ethel  reached  the  landing,  and  entered  a  room  of  tolerable 
dimensions,  considerably  encumbered  with  litter,  which  opened  into  a 
smaller  room,  with  a  tent  bed.  A  little  bit  of  fire  glimmered  in  the  grate. 
The  whole  place  looked  excessively  forlorn  and  comfortless. 

Mrs.  Derham  bustled  about  to  bestow  a  little  neatness  on  tbe  room,  say- 
ing something  of  the  "  untidiness  of  gentlemen,"  and  "  so  many  lodgers 


I.ODORE.  143 

iri  the  house."  Ethel  sat  down  ;  she  longed  to  be  atone.  There  was  the 
post-boy  to  be  paid,  and  to  be  ordered  to  take  the  carriage  to  a  coach-bouse  • 
ani  then —  Mrs.  Derham  asked  her  if  she  would  not  have  something  to 
eat:  she  herself  was  at  tea,  and  offered  a  cup,  which  Ethel  thankfully  ac- 
cepted, acknowledging  that  she  had  not  eaten  since  the  morning.  Mrs. 
Derham  was  shockedC  The  rank,  beauty,  and  sweet  manners  of  Ethel 
had  made  a  conquest,  which  her  extreme  youth  redoubled.  "  So  young  a 
lady,"  she  said,  "  to  go  about  alone  :  she  did  not  know  how  to  take  care  of 
herself,  she  was  sure.  She  must  have  some  supper:  a  roast  chicken  should 
be  ready  in  an  hour —  by  the  time  Mr.  Villiers  came  in." 

"  But  the  tea,"  said  Ethel,  smiling ;  "  you  will  let  me  have  that  now  ?" 

Mrs.  Derham  hurried  away  on  this  hint,  and  the  young  wife  was  left 
alone.  She  had  been  married  a  year  ;  but  there  was  still  a  freshness  ahout 
her  feelings,  which  gave  zest  to  every  change  in  her  wedded  life.  "  This 
is  where  he  has  been  living  without  me,"  she  thought ;  "  Poor  Edward  !  it 
does  not  look  as  if  he  were  very  comfortable." 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  began  to  arrange  the  books  and  papers.  A 
glove  of  her  husband's  lay  on  the  table :  she  kissed  it  with  a  glad  feeling 
of  welcome.  When  the  servant  came  in,  she  had  the  fire  replenished  — 
the  hearth  swept;  and  in  a  minute  or  two,  the  room  had  lost  much  of  its 
disconsolate  appearance.  Then,  with  a  continuation  of  her  feminine  love 
of  order,  she  arranged  her  own  dress  and  hair;  giving  to  her  attire,  as 
rmich  as  possible,  an  at-home  appearance.  She  had  just  finished  —  just 
sat  down,  and  begun  to  find  the  time  long — when  a  quick,  imperative 
knock  at  the  door,  which  she  recognised  at  once,  made  her  heart  beat, 
and  her  cheek  grow  pale.  She  heard  a  step  —  a  voice  —  and  Mrs.  Der- 
ham  answer  —  "  Yes,  sir  ;  the  fire  is  in  — every  thing  comfortable  ;" —  and 
Ethel  opened  the  door,  as  she  spoke,  and  in  an  instant  was  clasped  in  her 
husband  s  arms. 

[t  was  not  a  moment  whose  joy  could  be  expressed  by  words.  He  had 
been  miserable  during  her  absence,  and  had  thought  of  sending  for  her; 
but  he  'ooked  round  his  single  room,  remembered  that  he  was  in  lodgings, 
and  ^ave  up  his  purpose  with  a  hitter  murmur:  and  here  she  was,  uncalled 
for,  but  most  welcome  :  she  was  here,  in  her  youth,  her  loveliness,  he" 
sweetness :  thes e  were  charms  ;  but  others  more  transcendent  now  attended 
on  and  invested  her;  —the  sacred  tenderness  of  a  wife  had  led  her  to  his 
side  ;  and  love,  in  its' most  genuine  and  beautiful  shape,  shed  an  atmosphere 
of  delight  ani  worship  about  her.  Not  one  circumstance  could  alloy  the 
unspeakable  bliss  of  their  meeting.  Poverty,  and  its  humiliations,  vanished 
from  before  the  eyes  of  Villiers;  he  was  0verfl0win2.lv  rich  in  the  posses- 
sion of  her  affections  — her  presence.  Again  and  again  he  thanked  her, 
in  b-oke.n  accents  of  expressive  transport. 

"T^othin  z  in  the  whole  world  could  make  me  unhappy  now  !"  he  cried  ; 
and  Ethel,  who  had  seen  his  face  look  elongated  and  gloomv  at  the  moment 
he  had  entered,  felt  indeed  that.  Medea,  with  all  her  potcntherbs,  was  less 
of  a  mancian  than  she,  in  the  power  of  infusing  the  sparkling  spirit  of  life 
into  one  human  frame.  It  was  long  before  either  were  coherent  in  their 
inquiries  and  replies.  There  was  nothing,  indeed,  that  either  wished  to 
know.  Life,  ani  its  pu-poses,  were  fulfilled,  rounded,  complete,  without  a 
flaw.  Thw  loved,  ani  were  together  —  together,  not  for  a  transitory  mo- 
ment, but  for  the  whole  duration  of  the  eternity  of  love,  which  never  could 
be  exhausted  in  their  hearts. 

After  more  than  an  hour  spent  in  gradually  becoming  acquainted  and 
familiar  with  the  transpo  tin z  change,  from  separate  loneliness  to  mutuai 
society  and  sympathy  the  good-natured  face  of  Mrs.  Derham  showed  itself, 
to  announce  that  Ethel's  supper  was  ready.     These  words  brought  back  to 


144  LODORE. 

Edward's  recollection 'his  wife's  journey,  and  consequent  fatigue?  :  he  be- 
came more  desirous  than  Mrs.  Derham  to  feed  his  poor  famished  bird,  whose 
eyes,  in  spite  of  the  joy  that  shone  in  them,  began  to  look  languid,  and  wnose 
cheek  was  pale.  The  little  supper  table  was  laid,  and  ihey  sat  down  to- 
gether. 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  has  recorded  the  pleasure  to  be  reaped 

"  When  we  meet  with  champagne  and  a  r.hicken  at  last ;" 

and  perhaps  social  life  contains  no  combination  so  full  of  enjoyment  as  a 
tete-a*-tete  supper.  Here  it  was,  with  its  highest  zest.  They  feared  no  prying 
eyes  —  they  knew  no  ill :  it  was  not  a  scanty  hour  of  joy  snatched  from  an 
age  of  pain  —  a  single  spark  illuminating  a  long  blank  night.  It  came  after 
separation,  and  possessed,  therefore,  the  charm  of  novelty ;  but  it  was  the 
prelude  to  a  long  reunion  —  the  seal  set  on  their  being  once  again  joined, 
to  go  through  together  each  hour  of  the  livelong  day.  Full  of  unutterable 
thankfulness  and  gladness,  as  Were  the  minds  of  each>  there  was  besides, 

"  A  sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 
A  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss," 

which  is  the  crown  and  fulfilment  of  perfect  human  happiness.  "  Impara- 
dised  "  by  each  other's  presence  —  no  doubt  —  no  fear  of  division  on  the 
morrow  —  no  dread  of  untoward  event,  suspicion,  or  blame,  clouded  the 
balmy  atmosphere  which  their  hearts  created  around  them.  No  Eden  was 
required  to  enhance  their  happiness ;  there  needed  no 

"  Crisped  brooks, 
Rolling  on  orient  pearl  and  sands  of  gold ;" — 

no 

" Happy,  rural  seat,  with  various  view" 

decked  with 

"  Flowers  of  all  hue," 

"  All  trees  of  noblest  kind  for  sight,  smell,  taste  ;"— 

nor  "  cool  recess, "  no* 

"  Vernal  airs, 
Breathing  the  smell  of  field  and  grove." 

In  their  narrow  abode  — their  nook  of  a  room,  cut  off  from  the  world,  redo- 
lent only  of  smoke  and  fog  — their  two  fond  hearts  could  build  up  bowers 
of  delight,  and  store  them  with  all  of  ecstasy  which  the  soul  of  man  can 
know,  without  any  assistance  of  eye,  or  ear,  or  scent.  So  rich,  and  prodi- 
gal, and  glorious,  in  its  gifts,  is  faithful  and  true-hearted  love, —when  it 
knows  the  sacrifices  which  it  must  make  to  merit  them,  and  consents  wil- 
lingly to  forego  vanity,  selfishness,  and  the  exactions  of  self-will,  in  unlim- 
ited and  unregretted  exchange. 

Mutual  esteem  and  gratitude  sanctified  the  unreserved  sympathy  which 
made  each  so  happv  in  the  other.  Did  they  love  the  less  for  not  lov- 
in;  «m  sin  and  fear?'  Far  from  it.  The  certainty  of  being  the  cause 
of  good  to  each  other  tended  to  foster  the  most  delicate  of  all  passions,  more 
than  the  rougher  administrations  of  terror,  and  a  knowledge  that  each  was 
the  occasion  "of  irfjury  to  the  other.  A  woman's  heart  is  peculiarly  unfitted 
to  sustain  this  conflict.  Her  sensibility  gives  keenness  to  her  imagination, 
and  she  magnifies  every  peril,  and  writhes  beneath  every  sacrifice  which 


B0DOR53.  145 

lends  to  fcumiiiatefeer  in  her  own  eyes.    The  natural  pride  of  her  sex  strug- 
gles with  her  desire  to  confer  happiness,  and  her  peace  is  wrecked. 

Far  different  was  the  happy  Ethel's  situation  —  far  otherwise  were  her 
thoughts  employed  than  in  concealing  the  pangs  of  care  and  sham^.  The 
sense  of  right  adorned  the  devotion  of  love.  She  read  approbation  in 
Edward's  eyes,  and  drew  near  him  in  rull  consciousness  of  deserving  it.  They 
sat  at  their  supper,  and  long  after,  by  the  cheerful  fere,  talking  of  a  thousand 
things  connected  with  the  present  and  the  future  —  the  long,  long  future 
which  they  were  "to  spend  together ;  and  every  now  and  then  their  eyea 
sparkled  with  the  gladness  of  renewed  delight  in  seeing  each  other.  "  Mine, 
my  own,  for  everl"  —  And  was  this  exultation  in  possession  to  be  termed 
selfish  ?  by  no  other  reasoning  surely,  than  that  used  by  a  cold  and  mean- 
ingless philosophy,  which  gives  this  name  to  generosity  and  truth,  and  all 
the  nobler  passions  of  the  soul.  They  congratulated  themselves  on  this 
mutual  property,  partly  because  it  had  been  a  free  gift  one  to  the  other ; 
partly  because  they  looked  forward  to  the  right  it  ensured  to  each,  of  con- 
ferring mutual  benefits  ;  and  partly  through  the  instinctive  love  Grod  has 
implanted  for  that  which,  being  ours,  is  become  the  better  part  of  ourselves. 
They  were  united  for  "  better  and.  worse,"  and  there  was  a  sacredness  in 
the  thought  of  the  "  wors^  "  they  might  share,  which  gave  a  mysterious  and 
©elestial  charm  to  the  present  "  hotter." 


CHAPTER  XXXV, 

Do  you  not  think  yourself  truly  happy  ? 
Y  >u  havf  t  'e  abstract  of  aP  s.veetness  oy  you, 
The  pecious  w->alti  youth  labour- to  arrive  at, 
Nor  is  she  Jess  in  honour  than  in  beautv. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

The  following  day  was  one  of  pouring,  unintermitting  rain.  Villiers  and 
Ethel  drew  their  chairs  near  their  cheerful  fire,  and  were  happy,  Edward 
could  not  quite  conquer  his  repugnance  to  seeing  his  wife  in  lodgings,  and 
m  those  also  of  so  mean  and  narrow  a  description.  But  the  spirit  of  Ethel 
was  more  disencumbered  of  earthly  particles  ;  that  had  found  its  rest  in  the 
very  home  of  Love.  The  rosy  light  of  the  divinity  invested  all  things  for 
her.     Cleopatra  on  the  Cydnus,  in  the  bark  which  — 

"  Like  a  burnished  throne 
Burnt  on  the  water;" 
borne  along 

"  By  purple  sails  .... 
....  So  perfumed,  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them  ;w 

was  not  more  gorgeously  attended  than  Ethel  was  to  her  own  fancy,  lapped 
and  cradled  in  all  that  love  has  of  tender,  voluptuous,  and  confiding. 

Several  days  passed  before  Villiers  could  withdraw  her  from  this  blissful 
dream,  to  gaze  upon  the  world  as  it  was.  He  could  not  make  her  disgusted 
with  her  fortunes  nor  her  abode,  but  he  awakened  anxiety  on  his  own  ac- 
count. His  father,  as  he  had  conjectured^  was  gone  to  Paris,  leaving  merely 
a  message  for  his  son,  that  he  would  willingly  join  him  in  any  act  for 

33—5 


Hfj  LODCKET. 

raising  money,  by  mortgage  err  the  absolute  disposal  of  a  part  of  the  estate; 
Edward  had  consulted  with  his  solicitor,  who  was  to  iook  over  a  vast  vari- 
ety of  papers,  to  discover  the  most  eligible  mode  of  making  some  kind  of 
sale.  Delay,  in  all  its  various  shapes,  Waited  on  these  arrangements  ;  and 
Villiers  was"  very  averse  to  leaving  town  till  he  held  some  clue  to  the  laby- 
rinth of  obstacles  which  presented  themselves  at  every  turn.  He  talked  of 
their  taking  a  house  in  town  ;  but  Ethel  would'  not  hear  of  such  extrava- 
gance. In  the  first  place,  their  actual  means  were  at  a  very  low  ebb,  with 
little  hope  of  at  speedy  supply.  There  was  another  circumstance,  the 
annoyance  of  which  he  understood  far  better  than  Ethel  Could.  He  had 
raised  money  on  annuities,  the  interest  of  which  he  was  totally  unable  to 
pay  ;  this  exposed  him  to  a  personal  risk  of  the  most  disagreeable  kind,  and 
he  knew  that  his  chief  creditor  was  on  the  point  of  resorting  to  harsh  meas- 
ures against  him.  These  things,  din?y-visa°;ed,  dirty-handed  realities  as 
they  were,  made  a  strange  contrast  with  Ethel's  feeling  of  serene  and  ele- 
vated bliss  ;  but  she,  with" unshrinking  heart,  brought  the  same  fortitude  and 
love  into  the  crooked  and  sordid  ways  of  modern  London,  which  had  adorned 
heroines  of  old,  as  they  wandered  amidst  trackless  forests,  and  over  barren 
mountains. 

Several  days"  passed,  and  the  weather  became  clear,  though  cold.  The 
young  pair  walked  together  in  the  parks  at  such  morning  hours  as  would 
prevent  their  meetino;  any  acquaintances,  for  Edward  was  desirous  that  it 
should  not  be  known  that  they  were  in  town.  Villiers  also  traced  his  daily, 
weary,  disappointing  way  to  his  solicitor,  where  he  found  things  look  more 
blank  and  dismal  each  day.  Then  when  evening  came,  and  the  curtains; 
were  drawn,  they  might  hare  been  at  the  top  of  Mount  Caucasus,  instead 
of  in  the  centre  of  London,  so  completely  were  they  cut  off  from  every  thing: 
except  each  other.  They  then  felt  absolutely  happy  :  the  lingering  disgusts 
of  Edward  were  washed  clean  away  by  the  bounteous,  evei -springing  love, 
that  flowed,  as  waters  from  a  fountain,  from  the  heart  of  Ethel,  in  one 
perpetual  tide. 

In  those  hours  of  unchecked  talk,  she  learned  many  things  she  had  not 
known  before  —  the  love  of  Horatio  SaviTle  for  Lady  Lodore  was  revealed 
to  her;  but  the  sfory  was  not  truly  told,  for  the  prejudices  as  well  as  the 
ignorance  of  Villiers  rendered  him  blind  to  the  sincerity  of  Cornelia's  affec- 
tion and  regret.  Ethel  wondered,  and  in  spite  of  the  charm  with  which  she- 
delighted  to  invest  the  image  of  her  mother,  she  could  not  help  agreeing 
with  her  husband  that  she  must  be  irrevocably  wedded  to  the  most  des- 
picable worldly  feelings,  so  to  have  played  with  the  heart  of  a  man  such  as 
Horatio  :  a  man  whose  simplest  word  bore  the  stamp  of  truth  and  genius  j 
one  of  those  elected  few  whom  nature  elevates  to  her  own  hisdi  list  of  nobility 
and  greatness.  How  could  she,  a  simple  girl,  interest  feelings  which  were 
not  alive  to  Saville's  merits?  She  could  only  hope  that  in  some  dazzling, 
marriage  Lady  Lodore  would  find  a  compensation  for  the  higher  destiny 
which  might  have  been  hers,  but  that,  like  the  H  base  Indian,"  she  had 
thrown 

u  A  pearl  away. 
Richer  than  all  his  tribe. n 

There  was  a  peaceful  quiet  in  their  secluded  and  obscure  fife,  which 
somewhat  resembled  the  hours  spent  on  board  ship,  when  you  long  for,  yet 
fear,  the  conclusion  of  the  voyage,  and  shrink  involuntarily  from  exchanging 
a  state  whose  chief  blessing  is  an  absence  of  every  care,  for  the  variety  of 
pains  and  pleasures  which  chequer  life.  Ethel  possessed  her  all  —  so  near, 
so  undivided,  so  entirely  her  own,  that  she  could  not  enter  into  Villiers's 
impatience,  nor  quite  sympathize  with  the  disquietude  he  could  not  repress* 
After  considerable  delays,  his  solicitor  informed  him-  that  his  father  had  s^ 


LODORE.  J  47 

entirely  disposed  of  all  his  interest  in  the  property,  that  his  readiness  to  join 
in  any  art  of  sale  would  be  useless.  The  next  thing  to  be  done  was  for 
E  IwiH  to  sell  a  part  of  his  expectations,  and  the  lawyer  promised  to  find 
a  purchaser,  and  beg  ^ed  to  see  him  three  days  hence,  when  no  doubt  he 
should  have  some  proposal  to  communicate. 

Whoever  has  known  what  such  things  are  —  whoever  has  waited  on  the 
demurs  and  objections,  and  suffered  the  alternations  of  total  failure  and 
suddenly  renewed  hopes,  which  are  the  Tantalus-food  held  Jo  the  lips  of 
tnose  under  the  circumstances  of  Villiers,  can  follow  in  imagination  his 
various  conferences  with  his  solicitor,  as  day  after  day  something  new  was 
discovered,  still  to  drag  on,  or  to  impede,  the  tortoise  pace  of  his  negotiations. 
It  will  be  no  matter  of  wonder  to  such,  that  a  month  instead  of  three  days 
wasted  away,  and  found  him  precisely  in  the  same  position,  with  hopes  a 
little  raised,  though  so  frequently  blasted,  and  nothing  done. 

In  recording  the  annoyances,  or  rather  the  adversity  which  the  young  pair 
endured  at  this  period,  a  risk  is  run,  on  the  one  hand,  of  being  censured  for 
bringing  the  reader  into  contact  with  degrading  and  sordid  miseries;  and 
on  the  other,  of  laying  too  much  stress  on  circumstances  which  will  appear 
to  those  in  a  lower  sphere  of  life  as  scarcely  deserving  the  name  of  misfor- 
tune. It.  is  very  easy  to  embark  on  the  wild  ocean  of  romance,  and  to  steer 
a  danger -fraught  passage  amidst  giant  perils,  —  the  very  words  employed 
excite  the  imagination,  and  give  grace  to  the  narrative.  But  all  beautiful 
and  fairy-like  as  was  Ethel  Villiers,  in  tracing  her  fortunes  it  is  necessary 
to  descend  from  such  altitudes,  to  employ  terms  of  vulgar  use,  and  to 
describe  scenes  of  common-place  and  debasing  interest ;  so  that,  if  she 
herself,  in  her  youth  and  feminine  tenderness,  does  not  shed  light  and 
holiness  around  her,  we  shall  grope  darkling,  and  fail  utterly  in  the  scope 
which  we  proposed  to  ourselves  in  selecting  her  history  for  the  entertain 
ment  of  the  reader. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spi>  it,  yet  a  Woman  ton  ! 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

F>r  human  nature's  clai'V  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrows   simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

Wordsworth. 

The  end  of  December  had  come.  New-year's  day  found  and  left  them 
still  in  Duke-street.  On  the  4th  of  January  Villiers  received  a  letter  from 
his  ancle,  Led  Mari|toW,  intrusting  a  commission  to  him,  'which  obliged 
him  to  go  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Egham.  Not  having  a  horse,  he  went 
by  the  sta^e.  He  set  out  so  late  in  the  day  thst  there  was  no  chance  of  his 
returning  the  same  ni^ht ;  and  he  promised  to  be  back  early  on  the  morrow. 
Ethel  had  letters  to  write  to  Italy  and  to  her  aunt ;  and  with  these  she  tried 
to  beguile  the  time.  She  felt  lonely  ;  the  absence  of  Villiers  for  so  many 
hours  engendered  an  anxiety,  which  she  found  some  difficulty  in  repressing. 
Accustomed  to  have  him  perpetually  at  her  side,  and  Without  any  other 
companion  or  resource,  she  repined  at  her  solitude.  There  was  his  empty 
chair,  and  no  hope  that  he  would  occupy  it ;  and  she  sat  in  her  little  room 
so  near  to  thousands,  and  y-^t  so  cut  off  from  every  one,  with  such  a  sense 
of  desolation  as  Vtun^o  Park  mi^ht  have  felt  in  central  Africa,  or  a  ship- 
wrecked mariner  On  an  uninhabited  island. 

Her  pen  was  taken  up,  but  she  did  not  write.     She  could  not  command 


148  LOPORE. 

her  thoughts  to  express  any  thing  but  the  overflowing,  devoted,  all-engroBsing 
affection  of  her  heart,  her  adoration  for  her  husband.  That  would  not  amuse 
Lucy,  she  thought :  and  she  had  commencec  another  she;  t  with  "  My 
dsarest  Aunt,"  when  the  maid-servant  ushered  a  man  into  her  presence  — 
a  stranger,  a  working  man.  What  could  he  want  with  her  ?  He  seemed 
confused,  and  stammered  out,  "Mr.  Villiers  is  not  in  ?" 

"  He  will  be  at  home  to-morrow,  if  you  want  him  ;  or  have  you  any 
message  that  I  can  give  ?" 

"  You  are  Mrs.  Villiers,  ma'am  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  goad  man,  I  am  Mrs.  Villiers." 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  1  am  Saunders,  one  of  the  porters  at  the  Union 
Club."' 

"  I  remember  :  has  any  message  come  there  ?  or  does  Mr.  Villiers  owe 
you  any  money  ?"  and  her  purse  was  in  her  hand. 

"  Oh  no,  ma'am.  Mr.  Villiers  is  a  good  gentleman  ;  and  he  has  been 
petiklar  generous  to  me  —  and  that  is  why  I  come,  because  I  am  afraid," 
continued  the  man,  lowering  his  tone,  "  that  he  is  in  danger." 

"  Good  heavens  !  Where  ?  how  ?"  cried  Ethel,  starting  from  her  chair; 
"  tell  me  at  once." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  will ;  so  you  must  know  that  this  evening " 

"Yes,  this  evening.  What  has  happened  ?  he  left  me  at  six  o'clock  — 
what  is  it  ?" 

"  Nothing,  I  hope,  this  evening,  ma'am.  I  am  only  afraid  for  to-morrow 
morning.     And  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know,  as  quick  as  ever  I  can." 

The  man  then  proceeded  to  relate,  that  some  one  had  been  inquiring 
about  Mr.  Villiers  at  the  Club  house.  One  of  the  servants  had  told  him 
that  he  lived  in  Duke-street,  St.  James's,  and  that  was  all  he  knew  ;  but 
Saunders  came  up,  and  the  man  questioned  him.  He  instantly  recognised 
the  fellow,  and  knew  what  his  business  must  be.  And  he  tried  to  deceive 
him,  and  declared  that  Mr.  Villiers  was  gone  out  of  town  ;  but  the  fellow 
said  that  he  knew  better  than  that ;  and  that  he  had  been  seen  that  very 
day  in  the  Strand.  He  should  look  for  him,  no  thanks  to  Saunders,  in 
Duke-street.  "  And  so,  ma'am,  you  see  they'll  be  sure  to  be  here  early 
to-morrow  morning.  So  don't  let  Mr.  Villiers  stay  here,  on  no  account 
whatsomever." 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Ethel  simply  ;   "they  can't  hurt  him." 

"I  am  sure,  ma'am,"  said  Saunders,  his  face  brightening,  "I  am  very 
glad  to  hear  that  —  you  know»best.     They  will  arrest  him,  for  sure,  but — " 

"  Arrest  him!" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  for  I've  seen  the  tall  one  before.  There  were  two  of  them 
—.bailiffs." 

Ethel  now  began  to  tremble  violently  ;  these  were  strange,  cabalistic 
words  to  her,  the  more  awful  from  their  mystery.  "  What  am  I  to  do  ?" 
she  exclaimed  ;  "  Mr.  Villiers  will  be  here  in  the  morning,  he  sleeps  at 
Egham,  and  will  be  here  early  ;  I  must  go  to  him  directly." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  he  is  so  far,"  said  Saunders  ;  "  and  if  I  can  be  of  any 
use  you  have  but  to  say  it ;  shall  I  go  to  Egham  ?  there  are  night  coaches 
that  go  through,  and  I  might  warn  him." 

Ethel  thought — she  feared  to  do  any  thing — she  imagined  that  she 
should  be  watched,  that  all  her  endeavours  would  be  of  no  avail.  She 
looked  at  the  man,  honesty  was  written  on  his  face ;  but  there  was  no 
intelligence,  nothing  to  tell  her  that  his  advice  was  good.  The  possibility 
of  such  an  event  as  the  present  had  never  occurred  to  her.  Villiers  had 
been  silent  with  regard  to  his  fears  on  this  head.  She  was  suddenly  trans- 
ported into  a  strange  sea,  hemmed  in  by  danger,  without  a  pilot  or  know- 
ledge of  a  passage.  Again  she  looked  at  the  man's  face :  "  What  is  best 
to  be  done  !"  she  exclaimed. 


LODOEE.  149 

"I  am  sure,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  as  if  she-  had  asked  him  the  question, 
"I  think  what  I  said  is  best,  if  you  will  tell  me  where  I  can  find  Mr.  Vil- 
liers.  I  should  think  nothing  of  going,  and  he  could  send  word  by  me 
what  he  wished  you  to  do." 

"  Yes,  that  would  indeed  be  a  comfort.  I  will  write  three  lines,  and  you 
shall  take  them."  In  a  moment  she  had  written.  "  Give  this  note  into 
his  own  hand,  he  will  sleep  there — I  have  written  the  direction  of  the 
house  —  or  at  some  inn,  at  Egham.  Do  not  rest  till  you  have  given  the 
letter,  and  here  is  for  your  trouble."     She  held  out  two  sovereigns. 

"Depend  on  me,  ma'am  ;  and  I  will  bring  an  answer  to  you  by  nine  in 
the  morning.  Mr.  Villiers  will  pay  me  what  he  thinks  fit  —  you  may  want 
your  money.  Only,  ma  am,  don't  be  frightened  when  them  men  come  to- 
morrow —  if  the  people  here  are  good  sort  of  folks,  you  had  better  give  them 
a  hint  —  it  may  save  you  trouble." 

"  Thank  you  :  you  are  a  good  man,  and  I  will  remember  you,  and  reward 
you.     By  nine  to- morrow  —  you  will  be  punctual?" 

The  man  again  assured  her  that  he  would  use  all  diligence,  and  took 
his  leave.     - 

Ethel  felt  totally  overwhelmed  by  these  tidings.  The  unknown  is  always 
terrible,  and  the  ideas  of  arrest,  and  prison,  and  bolts,  and  bars,  and  straw, 
floated  before  her  imagination.  Was  Villiers  safe  even  where  he  was  ? 
"Would  not  the  men  make  inquiries,  learn  where  he  had  gone,  and  follow 
him.  even  if  it  we  -e  to  the  end  of  the  world  ?  She  had  heard  of  the  activity 
employed  to  arrest  criminals,  and  mingled  every  kind  of  story  in  her  head, 
till  she  grew  desperate  from  terror.  Not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  she 
became  eager  for  Mrs.  Derham's  advice,  and  hurried  down  stairs  to  ask  it. 

She  had  not  seen  much  of  the  good  lady  since  her  first  arrival.  Every 
day, when  Villiers  went  out,  she  came  up,  indeed,  on  the  momentous  ques- 
tion of  "  orders  for  dinner ;"  and  then  she  bestowed  the  benefit  of  some 
tiv^  or  ten  minutes'  garrulity  on  her  fair  lodger.  Ethel  learned  that  she 
had  seen  better  days,  and  that,  were  justice  done  her,  she  ought  to  be  riding 
in  her  coach,  instead  oHetring  lodgings.  She  learned  that  she  had  a  mar- 
ried daughter  living  at  Kennington  :  poor  enough,  but  struggling  on  cheer- 
fully with  her  mother's  help.  The  best  girl  in  the  world  she  was,  and  a 
jewel  of  a  wife,  and  had  two  of  the  most  beautiful  children  that  ever  were 
behdd. 

This  was  all  that  Ethel  knew,  except  that  once  Mrs.  Derham  had  brought 
her  one  of  her  grandchildren  to  be  seen  and  admired.  In  all  that  the  good 
woman  said,  there  was  so  much  kindness,  such  a  cheerful  endurance  of  the 
ills  of  life,  and  she  had  shown  such  a  readiness  to  oblige,  that  the  idea  of 
applvi ng  to  her  for  advice  relieved  Ethel's  mind  of  much  of  its  load  of 
anxiety. 

She  was  too  much  agitated  to  think  of  ringing  for  the  servant,  to  ask  to 
see  her ;  but  hurried  down  stairs,  and  knocked  at  the  parlour-door  almost 
before  she  was  aware  of  what  she  was  doing.  "  Come  in,"  said  a  feminine 
vo'ce.  Ethel  entered,  and  started  to  see  one  she  knew  ;  —  and  yet  again 
she  doubted  ;  —  was  it  indeed  Fanny  Derham  whom  she  beheld  ? 

The  recognition  afforded  mutual  pleasure:  checked  a  little  on  Ethel's 
pa^t,  by  her  anxieties  ;  and  on  Fanny's  by  a  feeling  that  she  had  been 
ne^l°cted  by  her  friend.  A  few  letters  had  passed  between  them,  when 
first.  Ethel  had  visited  Lonsjfield  :  since  then  their  correspondence  had  been 
discontinued  till  after  her  return  to  England  from  Italy,  when  Mrs.  Villiers 
had  written;  but  her  letter  was  returned  by  the  post-office,  no  such  person 
being  to  be  found  according  to  the  address. 

The  embarrassment  of  the  moment  passed  away.     Ethel  forgot,  or  rather 
did  not  advert  to,  her  friend's  lowly  destiny,  in  the  joy  of  meeting  her  again. 
After  a  minute  or  two,  also,  they  had  become  familiar  with  the  change  that 
5* 


150  LODORE. 

time  had  operated  in  their  youthful  appearance,  whicn  was  not  much,  and 
most  in  Ethel.  Her  marriage,  and  conversance  with  the  world,  had  changed 
her  into  a  woman,  and  endowed  her  with  easy  manners  and  sell-possession. 
Fanny  was  still  a  mere  girl ;  tall,  be3'ond  the  middle  height,  yet  her  youi.g, 
ingenuous  countenance  was  unaltered,  as  well  as  that  singular  mixture  of 
mildness  and  independence,  in  her  manners,  which  had  always  characterised 
her.  Her  light  blue  eyes  beamed  with  intelligence,  and  her  smile  expressed 
the  complacency  and  condescension  of  a  superior  being.  Her  beauty  was 
all  intellectual :  open,  sincere,  passionless,  yet  benignant,  you  approached 
her  without  fear  of  encountering  any  of  the  baser  qualities  of  human 
beings,  —  their  hypocrisy,  or  selfishness.  Those  who  have  seen  the  paint- 
ings of  the  calm-visaged,  blue-eyed  deities  of  the  frescoes  of  Pompeii,  may 
form  an  idea  of  the  serene  beauty  of  Fanny  Dei-ham. 

When  Mrs.  Villiers  entered,  she  was  reading  earnestly — a  large  dic- 
tionary open  before  her.  The  book  on  which  she  was  intent  was  in  Greek 
characters.  "You  have  not  forgotten  your  old  pursuits,"  said  Ethel, 
smiling. 

"  Say  rather  I  am  more  wedded  to  them  than  ever,"  she  replied  ;  "  since, 
more  than  ever,  I  need  them  to  give  light  and  glory  to  a  dingy  world.  But 
you,  dear  Ethel,  if  so  I  may  call  you,  —  you  looked  anxious  as  you  entered  : 
you  wish  to  speak  to  my  mother;  —  she  is  gone  to  Kennington,  and  will 
not  return  to-night.     Can  1  be  of  any  use  ?" 

Her  mother !  how  strange  !  and  Mrs.  Derham,  while  she  had  dilated 
with  pride  on  her  elder  daughter,  had  never  mentioned  this  pearl  of  price, 
which  was  hers  also. 

'•  Alas  !  I  fear  not !"  replied  Ethel ;  it  is  experience  I  need  —  experience 
in  things  you  can  know  nothing  about,  nor  your  mother  either,  probably  ; 
yet  she  may  have  heard  of  such  things,  and  know  how  to  advise  me." 

Mrs.  Villiers  than  explained  the  source  of  her  disquietude.  Fanny  lis- 
tened with  looks  of  the  kindest  sympathy.  "Even  in  such  things,"  she 
said,  "  I  have  had  experience.  Adversity  and  I  are  become  very  close 
friends  since  I  last  saw  you:  we  are  intimate,  and  I  know  much  good  of 
her  ;  so  she  is  grateful,  and  repays  me  by  prolonging  her  stay.  Be  com- 
posed :  no  ill  will  happen,  I  trust,  to  Mr.  Villiers  ;  —  at  least  you  need  not 
be  afraid  of  his  being  pursued.  If  the  man  you  have  sent  be  active  and 
faithful,  all  will  be  well.  I  will  see  these  troublesome  people  lo-morrow, 
when  they  come,  and  prevent  your  being  annoyed.  If  Saunders  returns 
early,  and  brings  tidings  of  Mr.  Villiers,  you  will  know  what  his  wishes 
are.  You  can  do  nothing  more  to-night ;  and  there  is  every  probability 
that  all  will  be  well." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Villiers.  "  Oh  that  I  had  gone 
with  him  !  —  never  will  I  again  let  him  go  anywhere  without  me." 

Fanny  entered  into  more  minute  explanations,  and  succeeded,  to  a  great 
degree,  in  calming  her  friend.  She  accompanied  her  back  to  her  own 
room,  and  sat  with  her  long.  She  entered  into  the  details  of  her  own  his- 
tory:—  the  illness  and  death  of  her  father;  the  insulting  treatment  her 
mother  had  met  from  his  family  ;  the  kindness  of  a  relation  of  her  own, 
who  had  assisted  them,  and  enabled  them  to  pursue  their  present  mode  of 
life,  which  procured  them  a  livelihood.  Fanny  spoke  generally  of  these 
circumstances,  and  in  a  spirit  that  seemed  to  disdain  that  such  things  were  ; 
not  because  they  were  degrading  in  the  eyes  of  others,  but  because  they 
interfered  with  the  philosophic  leisure,  and  enjoyment  of  nature,  which  she 
so  dearly  prized.  She  thought  nothing  of  privation,  or  the  world's  imper- 
tinence ;  but  much  of  being  immured  in  the  midst  of  London,  and  being 
forced  to  consider  the  inglorious  necessities  of  life.  Her  desire  to  be  useful 
to  her  mother  induced  her  often  to  spend  precious  time  in  "  making  the  best 
of  things,"  which  she  would  readily  have  dispensed  with  altogether,  as  the 


easiest,  as  well  as  the  wisest  way  of  freeing  herself  from  their  trammels. 
Her  narration  interested  Ethel,  and  served  to  calm  her  mind.  She  though* 
—  '  Can  I  not  bear  those  cares  with  equanimity  for  Edward's  sake,  which 
Fanny  re  ^ards  as  so  trivial,  merely  because  Plato  and  Epictetus  b'd  herdo 
so  ?  Will  not  the  good  God,  who  has  implanted  in  her  heart  so  cheerless 
a  consolation,  bring  comfort  to  mine,  which  has  no  sorrow  but  for  another's 
sake  ?" 

These  reflections  tranquillized  her,  when  she  laid  her  head  -on  her  pillow 
at  niiiht.  She  resigned  her  being  and  destiny  to  a  Power  superior  to  any 
earthly  authority,  with  a  conviction,  that  its  most  benign  influence  would 
be  extended  over  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

If  the  dull  substance  of  ray  flesh  were  thought, 
5  ijurious  distance  should  not  stop  my  way  ; 
F<>r  then,  despite  of  spacv,  I  would  be  brought, 
From  limits  far  renaote,  where  thou  dost  stay. 

Shakspeare. 

The  still  hours  of  darkness  passed  silently  away,  and  morning  dawneQj 
when 

All  rose  to  do  the  tusk,  he  set  lo  each 

Who  shaped  us  to  his  ends,  and  not  our  own, 

Ethel  had  slept  peacefully  through  the  livelong  night ;  nor  woke  till  a 
knock  at  her  door  roused  her.  A  rush  of  fear  —  a  sense  of  ill,  made  her 
heart  palpitate  as  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  light  of  day.  While  she  was 
.striving  to  recall  her  thoughts,  and  to  remember  what  the  evil  was  with 
which  she  was  threatened,  again  the  servant  tapped  at  her  door,  to  say  that 
Saunders  had  returned,  and  to  deliver  the  letter  he  had  brought.  She 
looked  at  her  watch :  it  was  past  ten  o'clock.  She  felt  glad  that  it  had 
grown  so  late,  and  she  not  disturbed  :  yet  as  she  took  the  letter  brought  to- 
ner from  her  husband,  all  her  tremor  returned  ;  and  she  read  it  with  agita- 
tion, as  if  it  contained  the  announcement  of  her  final  doom. 

"You  send  me  disagreeable  tidings,  my  sweet  Ethel,"  wrote  V:lhers, — 
£i  1  hope  unfounded  ;  but  caution  is  necessary  :  I  shall  not,  therefore,  come 
to  Duke-street.  Send  me  a  few  lines  by  Saunders,  to  tell  toe  if  any  thing 
has  happened.  If  what  he  apprehended  has  really  taken  place,  vou  must 
bear,  my  love,  the  separation  of  a  day.  You  do  not  understand  tuese  things, 
and  wiil  wonder  when  I  tell  you,  that  when  the  clock  strikes  twelve  on 
•Saturday  night,  the  magic  spells  and  potent  charms  of  Saunder's  friends 
cease  to  have  power :  at  that  hour  I  shall  be  restored  to  you.  Wait  till 
then — and  then  we  will  consult  for  the  future.  Have  patienee,  dearest 
love  :  you  have  wedded  poverty,  hardship,  and  annoyance  ;  but,  joined  to 
these,  is  the  fondest,  the  most  faithful  heart  in  the  world  ;  —  a  heart  you 
dleign  to  prize,  so  1  will  not  repine  at  ill  fortune.  Adieu,  till  this  evening; 
—  and  then,  as  Belvidera  says,  *  Remember  twelve  !' 

"  Saturday  MornmgJ* 

After  reading  these  lines,  Ethel  dressed  herself  hastily.  Fanny  Derham 
had  already  asked  permission  to  see  her ;  and  she  found  her  waiting  in 
faei  sitting-room.  It  was  an  unspeakable  comfort  to  have  one  as  intelligent 
s.nd  kind  as  Fanny,  to  communicate  with,  during  Edward's  absence.     The 


152  LODORE, 

soft,  pleading  eyes  of  Ethel,  asked  her  for  comfort  and  counsel;  and,  in 
spite  of  her  extreme  youth,  the  benignant  and  intelligent  expression  oi 
Fanny's  countenance  promised  both. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,"  she  said,  "that  Saunders's  prognostics  are  too  true. 
Such  men  as  he  describes  have  been  here  this  morning.  They  were  tolera- 
bly civil,  and  I  convinced  them,  with  greater  ease  than  i  had  hoped,  that  Mr. 
Villiers  was  absent  from  the  house  :  and  I  assured  them,  that  after  this  visit 
©f  theirs,  he  was  not  likely  to  return." 

"  And  cS  you  really  believe  that  they  were — "Ethel  faltered. 

"  Bailiffs  r"  Assuredly, "  replied  Fanny :  "  they  told  me  that  they  had  the 
power  to  search  the  house  ;  but  if  they  were  '  strong,  they  were  also  '  mer- 
ciful.' And  now,  what  do  you  do?  Saunders  tells  me  he  is  waiting  to 
take  back  a  fetter  to  Mr.  Villiers,  at  the  London  Coffee  House.  Yv  rite 
quickly,  while  I  make  your  breakfast." 

Ethel  gladly  obeyed.  She  wrote  a  few  words  to  her  husband.  That  is 
was  already  Saturday,  cheered  her :  twelve  at  night  would  scon  come. 

After  her  note  was  despatched,  she  addressed  Fanny.  "  What  trouble 
I  gbe,"  she  said :  "  what  will  your  mother  think  of  such  degrading  pro- 
eeedincg  V7 

"  My  mother,"  said  Fanny,  "  is  the  kindest-hearted  woman  in  the  world. 
We  have  never  exactly  suffered  this  disaster;  but  we  are  in  a  rank  of  life 
which  causes  us  to  be  brought  into  contact  with  such  among  our  friends  and 
relations  ;  and  she  is  familiar  with  trouble  in  almost  all'  shapes.  You  are 
a  great  favourite  of  hers  ;  and  now  that  she  can  claim  a  sort  of  acquaint- 
ance, she  will  be  heart  and  soul  your  friend," 

"It  is  odd,"  observed  Ethel,  "  that  she  never  mentioned  you  to  me.  Had! 
the  name  of  Fanny  been  mentioned,  I  should  have  recollected  who  Mrs. 
Derham  was." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Fanny  ;  "it  would  have  required  a  great  effort  of 
the  imagination  to  have  fancied  Mrs.  Derham  the  wife  of  my  father.  You 
never  knew  him  ;  but  Lord  Lodore  made  you  familiar  with  his  qualities : 
the  most  shrinking  susceptibility  to  the  world's  scorn,  joined  to  the  most 
entire  abstraction  from  all  that  is  vulgar  ;  a  morbid  sensibility  and  delicate 
health  placed  him  in  glaring  contrast  with  my  mother.  They  never  in  the 
teast  assimilated  ;  and  her  character  has  gained  in  excellence  since  his  loss. 
Before  she  was  fretted  and  galled  by  his  finer  feelings  —  now  she  can  be 
good  in  her  own  way.  Nothing  reminds  her  of  his  exalted  sentiments,  ex- 
cept mvself ;  and  she  is  willing  enough  to  forget  me." 

u  Arid  you  do  not  repine?"  asked  her  friend. 

"  I  do  not :  she  ishappy  in  and  with  Sarah.  I  should  spoil  their  notions 
of  comfort,  d»d  I  mingle  with  them  ;  —  they  would  torture  and  destroy  me, 
did  they  interfere  with  me.  I  lost  my  guide,  preserver,,  my  guardian  angel> 
when  my  fattier  died.  Nothing  remains  but  the  philosophy  which  he  taugh* 
me  —  the  disdain  of  low- chough  ted  care  which  he  sedulously  cultivated  j 
this,  joined  to  my  cherished  independence,  whieh  my  disposition  renders  ne~ 
cessary  to  me." 

"  And  thus  you  foster  sorrow,  and  waste  your  life  in  vain  regrets  ?" 

"  Pardon  me  !  I  do  not  waste  my  life,"  replied  Fanny,  with  her  sunny 
smile  ;  —  "  nor  am  I  unhappy —  far  otherwise.  An  ardent  thirst  for  know- 
ledge is  as  the  air  I  breathe  ;  and  the  acquisition  of  it  is  pure  and  unal- 
loyed happiness.  I  aspire  to  be  useful  to  my  fetrow-ereatures :  but  that  is  a 
consideration  for  the  future,  when  fortune  shall  smile  on  me;  now  I  have 
but  one  passion  ;  it  swallows  tip  every  other  ;  it  dwells  with  my  darling 
books,  and  is  fed  by  the  treasures  of  beauty  and  wisdom  which  they  contain." 

Ethel  could  not  "understand.  Fanny  continued  :  —  "I  aspire  to  be  useful ; 
—  sometimes  I  think  I  ana  —  once  I  know  I  was.  I  was  my  father's 
&knoner> 


LODORE.  153 

<:  "VVe  lived  in  a  district  where  there  was  a  great  deal  of  distress,  and  a 
great  deal  of  oppression.  We  had  no  money  to  give,  but  I  soon  found  that* 
determination  and  earnestness  will  do  much.  It  was  my  father  s  lesson,  that 
I  should  never  fear  any  thin^  but  myself.  He  taught  me  to  penetrate,  to 
anatonvze,  to  purify  my  motives ;  but  once  assured  of  my  own  integrity,  to 
be  afraid  of  nothing.  Words  have  more  power  than  ary  one  can  guess;  it 
is  by  words  that  the  world's  great  fight,  now  in  these  ch  ilized  times,  is  car- 
ried o*J ;  I  never  hesitated  to  use  them,  when  I  fought  any  battle  for  the  mis- 
erable and  oppressed.  People  are  so  afraid  to  speak,  it  would  seem  as  if 
half  our  fellow-creatures  were  born  with  deficient  organs  ;  like  parrots  they 
can  repeat  a  lesson,  but  their  voice  fails  them,  when  that  alone  is  wanting 
to  make  the  tyrant  quail." 

As  Fanny  spoke,  her  blue  eyes  brightened,  and  a  smile  irradiated  her 
face  ;  these  were  all  the  tokens  of  enthusiasm  she  displayed,  yet  her  words 
moved  Ethel  strangely,  and  she  looked  on  her  with  wonder  as  a  superior 
being.  Her  youth  gave  grace  to  her  sentiments,  and  were  an  assurance  ol 
their  sincerity.     She  continued  :  — 

"  [  am  becoming  flighty,  as  my  mother  calls  it ;  but,  as  I  spoke,  many 
scenes  of  cottage  distress  passed  through  my  memory,  when,  holding  my 
father's  hand,  I  witnessed  his  endeavours  to  relieve  the  poor.  That  is  all 
over  now  —  he  is  gone,  and  I  have  but  one  consolation  —  that  of  endeavour- 
ing to  render  myself  worthy  to  rejoin  him  in  a  better  world.  It  is  this  hope 
that,  impols  me  continually  and  without  any  flagging  of  spirit  to  culti- 
vate ray  understanding  and  to  refine  it.  Oh,  what  has  this  life  to  give, 
as  worldlin  *s  describe  it,  worth  one  of  those  glorious  emotions,  which  raise 
me  from  this  petty  sphere,  into  the  sun-bright  regions  of  mind,  which  my 
father  inhabits  !  I  am  rewarded  even  here  by  the  elevated  feelings  which 
the  authors,  whom  I  love  so  passionately,  inspire ;  while  I  converse  each 
day  with  Plato,  and  Cicero,  and  Epictetus,  the  world,  as  it  is,  passes  from 
before  me  like  a  vain  shadow." 

These  enthusiastic  words  were  spoken  with  so  calm  a  manner,  and  m 
so  equable  a  voice,  that  there  seem?d  nothing  strange  nor  exaggerated  in 
them.  It  is  vanitv  and  affectation  that  shock,  or  any  manifestation  of  feel- 
ing not  in  accordance  with  fhe  real  character.  But  while  we  follow  our 
natural  bent,  and  only  speak  that  which  our  minds  spontaneously  inspire, 
there  is  a  harmony,  which,  however  novel,  is  never  grating.  Fanny  Der- 
ham  spoke  of  things,  which,  to  use  her  own  expression,  were  to  her  as  the 
air  she  breathed,  and  the  simplicity  of  her  manner  entirely  obviated  the 
wonder  which  the  energy  of  her  expressions  might  occasion. 

Such  a  woman  as  Fanny  was  more  made  to  be  loved  by  her  own  sex 
than  bv  the  opposite  one-,'  Superiority  of  intellect,  joined  to  acquisitions 
beyond  those  usual  even  to  men,  and  both  announced  with  frankness, 
though  without  pretension,  form*  a  kind  of  anomaly  little  in  accord  with 
masculine  taste.  Fanny  could  not  be  the  rival  of  women,  and,  therefore, 
all  her  merits  were  appreciated  by  them.  They  love  to  look  up  to  a 
superior  being,  to  rest  on  a  firmer  support  than  their  own  minds  can 
afford  ;  and  they  are  glad  to  find  such  in  one  of  their  own  sex,  and  thus 
destitute  of  those  dangers  which  usually  a+tend  any  services  conferred  by 
men. 

From  talk  like  this,  they  diverged  to  subjects  nearer  to  the  heart  of  Ethel 
The^spoke  of  Lord  Lodore,  and  her  father's  name  soothed  her  agitation 
even  more  than  the  consolatory  arguments  of  her  friend.  She  remembered 
how  often  he  had  talked  of  the  trials  to  which  the  constancy  of  her  temper 
and  the  truth  of  her  affection  might  be  put,  and  she  felt  her  courage  rise  to 
encounter  those  now  before  her,  without  discontent,  or  rather  with  that 
cheerful  fortitude,  which  sheds  gmce  over  the  rugged  form  of  adversity. 


154  LODORE. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

Marian.  Could  you  so  long  be  absent  ? 

Robin.  What,  a  week  ? 
Was  that  so  long  ? 

Marian.  How  long  are  lovers'  weeks, 
Do  you  think,  Robin,  when  they  are  asunder? 
Are  they  not  pris'ners'  years  ? 

Bew  Jonsow. 

The  day  passed  on  more  lightly  than  Ethel  could  have  hoped  ;  much  ot 
it  indeed  was  gone  before  she  opened  her  eyes  to  greet  it.  Night  soon 
closed  in,  and  she  busied  herself  with  arrangements  for  the  welcome  ot 
her  husband.  Fanny  loved  solitude  too  well  herself  not  to  believe  that 
others  shared  her  taste.  She  retired  therefore  when  evening  commenced. 
No  sooner  was  Ethel  alone,  than  every  image  except  Edward's  passed  out 
of  her  mind.  Her  heart  was  bursting  with  affection.  Every  other  idea 
and  thought,  to  use  a  chymical  expression,  was  held  in  solution  by  that 
powerful  feeling,  which  mingled  and  united  with  every  particle  of  her  soul. 
She  could  not  write  nor  read  ;  if  she  attempted,  before  she  had  finished  the 
shortest  sentence,  she  found  that  her  understanding  was  wandering,  and 
she  re-read  it  with  no  better  success.  It  was  as  if  a  spring,  a  gush  from  the 
fountain  of  love,  poured  itself  in,  bearing  away  every  object  which  she 
strove  to  throw  upon  the  stream  of  thought,  till  its  own  sweet  waters  alone 
filled  the  channel  through  which  it  flowed.  She  gave  herself  up  to  the 
bewildering  influence,  and  almost  forgot  to  count  the  hours  till  Edward's 
expected  arrival.  At  last  it  was  ten  o'clock,  and  then  the  sting  of  impa- 
tience and  uncertainty  was  felt.  It  appeared  to  her  as  if  a  whole  age  had 
passed  since  she  had  seen  or  heard  of  him  —  as  if  countless  events  and 
incalculable  changes  might  have  taken  place.  She  read  again  and  again 
his  note,  to  assure  herself  that  she  might  really  expect  him  :  the  minutes 
meanwhile  stood  still,  or  were  told  heavily  by  the  distinct  beating  of  her 
heart.  The  east  wind  bore  to  her  ear  the  sound  of  the  quarters  of  hours, 
as  they  chimed  from  various  churches.  At  length  eleven,  half-past  eleven 
w  is  passed,  and  the  hand  of  her  watch  began  to  climb  slowly  upwards 
toward  the  zenith,  which  she  desired  so  ardently  that  it  should  reach.  She 
gazed  en  oiie  dial-plate,  till  she  fancied  that  the  pointers  did  not  move ;  she 
placed  her  hands  before  her  eyes  resolutely,  and  would  not  look  for  a  long 
long  time  ;  three  minutes  had  not  been  travelled  over  when  again  she 
viewed  it ;  she  tried  to  count  her  pulse  as  a  measurement  of  time  ;  her 
trembling  fingers  refused  to  press  the  fluttering  artery.  At  length  another 
quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed,  and  then  the  succeeding  one  hurried  on  more 
speedily.  Clock  after  clock  struck  ;  they  mingled  their  various  tones,  as 
the  hour  of  twelve  was  tolled  throughout  London.  It  seemed  as  if  they 
would  never  end.  Silence  came  at  last  —  a  brief  silence,  succeeded  by  a 
firm  quick  step  in  the  street  below,  and  a  knock  at  the  door.  "  Is  he  not 
too  soon  ?"  poor  fearful  Ethel  a^ked  herself.  But  no  ;  and  in  a  moment 
after  he  was  with  her,  safe  in  her  glad  embrace. 

Perhaps  of  the  two,  Villiers  showed  himself  the  most  enrapturedat  this 
meeting.  He  gazed  on  his  sweet  wife,  followed  every  motion,  and  hung 
upon  her  voice,  with  all  the  delight  of  an  exile  restored  to  his  long-lost 
home.  "  What  a  transporting  change,"  he  said,  "  to  find  myself  with 
you  —  to  see  you  in  the  same  room  with  me  —  to  know  again  that  lovely 
and  dear  as  you  are,  that  you  are  minn —  that  I  am  again  myself — not  the 


LOD0R.E.  155 

miserable  dog  that  has  been  wandering  about  all  day — a  body  without  a 
soul !     For  a  few  short  hours,  ?t  least,  Ethel  will  call  me  hers." 

""Indeed,  indeed,  love,"  she  replied,  "  we  will  not  be  separated  a^ain." 

"  We  will  not  even  think  about  that  to-night,"  said  Villiers.  "  The 
future  is  dark  and  blank,  the  present  as  radiant  as  your  own  sweet  self  can 
make  it." 

On  the  following  day  —  and  the  following  day  did  come,  in  spite  of  Ethel's 
wishes,  which  would  have  held  back  the  progress  of  time:  it  came  and 
passed  away;  hour  after  hour  stealing  along,  till  it  dwindled  to  a  mere 
point.  On  the  following  day,  they  consulted  earnestly  on  what  was  to  be 
done.  Villiers  was  greatly  averse  to  Erhel  s  leaving  her  present  abode, 
where  every  one  was  so  very  kind  and  attentive  to  her,  and  he  was  sanguine 
in  his  hopes  of  obtaining  in  the  course  of  the  week,  just  commenced,  a  sum 
sufficient  to  carry  them  to  Paris  or  Brussels,  where  they  could  remain  till 
his  affairs  were  finally  arranged,  and  the  payment  of  his  debts  regulated  in 
a  way  to  satisfy  his  creditors.  One  week  of  absence  ;  Vdliers  used  all  his 
persuasion  to  induce  Ethel  to  submit  to  it.  "  Where  you  can  be,  I  can  be 
also,"  was  her  answer ;  and  she  listened  unconvinced  to  the  detail  of  the 
inconveniences  which  Villiers  pointed  out. :  at  last  he  almost  got  angry. 
"  I  could  call  you  unkind,  Ethel,"  he  said,  "  not  to  yield  to  me." 

"  I  will  yield  to  you,"  said  Ethel ;  "  but  you  are  wrong  to  ask  me." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  replied  her  husband,  "  do  concedeThis  point,  dearest; 
if  not  because  it  is  best  that  you  should,  then  because  I  wish  it,  and  ask  it 
of  you.  You  say  that  your  first  desire  is  to  make  me  happy,  and  you  pain 
me  exceedingly  by  your  —  I  had  almost  said  perverseness." 

Thus,  not  convinced,  but  obedient,  Ethel  agreed  to  allow  him  to  depart 
alone.  She  bargained  that  she  should  be  permitted  to  come  each  day  in  a 
hackney  coach  to  a  place  where  he  might  meet  her,  and  they  could  spend 
an  hour  or  two  together.  Edward  did  not  like  this  plan  at  all,  but  there 
was  no  remedy.  "  You  are  at  least  resolved,"  he  said,  "  to  spur  my 
endeavours  ,  I  will  not  rest  day  or  night,  till  I  am  enabled  to  get  away  from 
this  vast  dungeon." 

The  hours  stole  on.  Even  Edward's  buoyant  spirits 'could  not  bear  up 
against  the  sadness  of  watching  the  fleeting  moments  till  the  one  should 
come  which  must  separate  him  from  his  wife.  "  This  nice,  dear  room,"  he 
said  ;  "  I  am  sure  I  beg  its  pardon  for  having  despised  it  so  much  formerly  — 
it  is  not  as  lofty  as  a  church,  nor  as  grand  as  a  palace,  but  it  is  very  snug  ; 
and  now  vou  are  in  it,  I  discern  even  elegance  in  its  exceedingly  queer 
tables  and  chairs.  When  our  carriage  broke  down  on  the  Apennines,  how 
glad  we  should  have  been  if  a  room  like  this  had  risen,  '  like  an  exhalation,' 
for  our  shelter !  Do  you  remember  the  barn  of  a  place  we  got  into  there, 
and  our  droll  bed  of  the  leaves  of  Indian  corn,  which  crackled  all  ni^ht  long, 
and  awoke  us  twenty  times  with  the  fear  of  robbers  ?  Then,  indeed,  twelve 
o'clock  was' not  to  separate  us  !" 

As  he  said  this  he  sighed ;  the  hour  of  eleven  was  indicated  by  Ethel's 
watch,  and  still  he  lingered  ;  but  she  grew  frightened  for  him,  and  forced 
him  to  go  away,  while  he  besought  the  delay  of  but  a  few  minutes. 

Ethel  exerted  herself  to  endure  as  well  as  she  could  the  separation  of  the 
ensuing  week.  She  was  not  of  a  repining  disposition,  yet  she  found  it  very 
hard  to~bear.  The  discomfort  to  which  Villiers  was  exposed  annoyed  her, 
and  the  idea  that  she  was  not  permitted  to  alleviate  it  added  to  her  painful 
feelings.  In  her  prospect  of  life  every  evil  was  neutralized  when  shared  — 
now  therwere  doubled,  because  the  pain  of  absence  from  each  other  was 
superadded.  She  did  not  yield  to  her  husband,  in  her  opinion  that  this  was 
wrong.  She  was  willing  to  go  anywhere  with  him,  and  where  he  was,  she 
al«o  could  be.  There  could  be  no  degradation  in  a  wife  waiting  on  the 
fallen  fortunes  of  her  husband.     No  debasement  can  arise  from  any  ser- 


1*>0  LODOHE-, 

vices  dictated  by  lo^.  It  is  despicable  to  submit  to  hardship  for  unworthy 
and  worldly  objects,  but  every  tbing  that  is  suffered  for  the  sake  of  affec- 
tion, is  hallowed  by  the  disinterested  sentiment,  and  affords  triumph  'and 
delMit  to  the  willing  victim.  Sometimes  she  tried  in  speech  ^r  on  paper  to 
express  these  feelings,  and  so  by  the  force  of  irresistible  reasoning  to  per- 
suade Edward  to  permit  her  to  join  him;  but  all  argument  was  weak; 
there  was  something  beyond,  that  no  words  could  express,  which  was 
stronger  than  any  reason  in  her  heart.  Who  can  express  the  power  of 
faithful  and  single-hearted  love?  As  well  attempt  to  define  the  laws  of 
life,  which  occasions  a  continuity  of  feeling  from  the  brain  to  the  extremity 
of  the  frame,  as  try  to  explain  how  love  can  so  unite  two  souls,  as  to  make 
each  feel  maimed  and  half  alive,  while  divided.  A  powerful  impulse  was 
perpetually  urging  Ethel  to  go  —  to  place  herself  near  Villiers  —  to  refuse 
to  depart.  It  was  with  the  most  violent  struggles  that  she  overcame  the 
instigation. 

She  never  could  forget  herself  while  away  from  him,  or  find  the  slightest 
alleviation  to  her  disquietude,  except  while  conversing  with  Fanny  Derham, 
or  rather  while  drawing  her  out,  and  listening  to  her,  and  wondering  at  a 
mechanism  of  mind  so  different  from  her  own.  Each  had  been  the  favour- 
ite daughter  of  men  of  superior  qualities  of  mind.  They  had  been  edu- 
cated by  their  several  fathers  with  the  most  sedulous  care,  and  nothing 
could  be  more  opposite  than  the  result,  except  that,  indeed,  both  made  duty 
the  master  motive  of  their  actions.  Ethel  had  received,  so  to  speak,  a  sex- 
ual education.  Lord  Lodore  had  formed  his  ideal  of  what  a  woman  ought 
to  be,,  of  what  he  had  wished  to  find  his  wife,  and  sought  to  mould  his 
daughter  accordingly.  Mr.  Derham  contemplated  the  duties  and  objects 
befitting  an  immortal  soul,  and  had  educated  his  child  for  the  performance 
of  them.  The  one  fashioned  his  offspring  to  be  the  wife  of  a  frail  human 
being,  and  instructed  her  to  be  yielding,  and  to  make  it  her  duty  to  devote 
herself  to  his  happiness,  and  to  obey  his  will.  The  other  sought  to  guard 
his  from  all  weakness,  to  make  her  complete  in  herself,  and  to  render  her 
independent  and  self-sufficing.  Born  to  poverty  as  Fanny  was,  it  was  thus 
only  that  she  could  find  happiness  in  rising  above  her  sphere  ;  and,  besides, 
a  sense  of  pride,  surviving  his  sense  of  injury,  caused  him  to  wish  that  his 
child  should  set  her  heart  on  higher  things  than  the  distinctions  and  advan- 
tages of  riches  or  rank  ;  so  that  if  ever  brought  into  collision  with  his  own 
family,  she  could  look  down  with  calm  superiority  on  the  "  low  ambition  " 
of  the  wealthy.  While  Ethel  made  it  her  happiness  and  duty  to  give  her- 
self away  with  unreserved  prodigality  to  him,  whom  she  thought  had  every 
claim  to  her  entire  devotion,  Fanny  zealously  guarded  her  individuality, 
and  would  have  scorned  herself  could  she  have  been  brought  to  place  the 
treasures  of  her  soul  at  the  disposal  of  any  power,  except  those  moral  laws 
which  it  was  her  earnest  endeavour  never  to  transgress.  Religion,  reason, 
and  justice  —  these  were  the  landmarks  of  her  life.  She  was  kind-hearted, 
generous,  and  true  —  so  also  was  Ethel;  but  the  one  was  guided  by  the 
tenderness  of  her  heart,  while  the  other  consulted  her  understanding,  and 
would  have  died  rather  than  have  acted  contrary  to  its  dictates. 

To  guard  Ethel  from  every  contamination,  Lord  Lodore  had  secluded 
her  from  all  society,  and  forestalled  every  circumstance  that  might  bring 
her  into  conjunction  with  her  fellow-creatures.  He  was  equally  careful  to 
prevent  her  fostering  any  pride,  except  that  of  sex ;  and  never  spoke  to  her 
as  if  she  were  of  an  elevated  rank  :  and  the  communication,  however 
small,  which  she  necessarily  had  with  the  Americans,  made  such  ideas 
foreign  to  her  mind.  But  she  was  exceedingly  shy ;  tremblingly  alive  to 
the  slightest  repulse  ;  and  never  perfectly  fearless,  (morally  so,  that  is,) 
except  when  under  the  shelter  of  another's  care.  Fanny's  first  principle 
was,  that  what  she  ought  to  do,  that  she  could  do,  without  hesitation  or 


LODORE.  }{/7 

regard  for  obstacles.  She  had  something  Gluixotic  *  her  nature  ;  or  rather 
she  would  have  had,  if  a  clear  head  and  some  experience,  even  you  no-  ag 
she  was,  had  not  stood  in  the  way  of  her  making  any  glaring  mistakes  ; 
so  that  her  enterprises  were  never  ridiculous  ;  and  being  usually  success- 
ful, could  not  be  called  extravagant.  For  herself,  she  needed  but  her  liberty 
and  her  books  ; — for  others,  she  had  her  time,  her  thoughts,  her  decided 
and  resolute  modes  of  action,  all  at  their  command,  whenever  she  was 
convinced  that  they  had  a  just  claim  upon  them. 

It  was  singular  that  the  resolute  and  unshrinking  Fanny  should  be  the 
daughter  of  Francis  Derham ;  and  the  timid,  retiring  Ethel,  of  his  bold 
and  daring  protector.  But  this  is  no  uncommon  case.  We  feel  the  evil 
results  of  our  own  faults,  and  endeavour  to  guard  our  children  from  them  ; 
forgetful  that  the  opposite  extreme  has  also  its  peculiar  dangers.  Lord 
Lodore  attributed  his  early  misfortunes  to  the  too  great  freedom  he  had 
enjoyed,  or  rather  to  the  unlimited  scope  given  to  his  will  from  his  birth. 
Mr.  Derham  saw  the  unhappiness  that  had  sprung  from  his  own  yielding 
and  undecided  disposition.  The  one  brought  up  his  child  to  dependence  ; 
the  other  taught  his  to  disdain  every  support,  except  the  applause  of  her 
own  conscience.  Lodore  fostered  all  the  sensibility,  all  the  softness,  of 
Ethel's  feminine  and  delicate  nature ;  while  Fanny  s  father  strove  to  harden 
and  confirm  a  character,  in  itself  singularly  steadfast  and  upright. 

In  spite  of  the  great  contrast  thus  exhibited  between  Ethel  and  Fanny, 
one  quality  created  a  good  deal  of  similarity  between  them.  There  was 
in  both  a  total  absence  of  every  factitious  sentiment  They  acted  from 
their  own  hearts — from  their  own  sense  of  right,  without  the  intervention 
of  worldly  considerations.  A  feeling  of  duty  ruled  all  their  actions;  and, 
however  excellent  a  person's  dispositions  may  be,  it  yet  requires  consider- 
able elevation  of  character  never  to  deviate  from  the  strict  line  of  honour 
and  integrity. 

Fanny's  society  a  little  relieved  Ethel's  solitude  ;  yet  that  did  not  weigh 
on  her  ;  and  had  she  not  been  the  child  of  her  father's  earliest  friend,  and 
the  companion  of  past  days,  she  would  have  been  disinclined,  at  this  period, 
to  cultivate  an  intimacy  with  her.  She  needed  no  companion  except  the 
thought  of  Edward,  which  was  never  absent  from  her  mind.  But  amidst 
all  her  affection  for  her  husband,  which  gained  strength,  and,  as  it  were, 
covered  each  day  a  larger  portion  of  her  being,  any  one  associated  with 
the  name  of  Lodore  —  of  her  beloved  father  —  had  a  magic  power  to  call 
fo^h  her  warmest  feelings  of  interest.  Both  ladies  repeated  to  each  other 
what  they  had  heard  from  their  several  parents.  Mr.  Derham  had,  among 
his  many  lessons  of  usefulness,  descanted  on  the  generosity  and  boldness 
of  Fitzhenry,  as  offering  an  example  to  be  followed.  And  during  the  last 
months  of  Lodore's  life,  he  had  recurred,  with  passionate  fondness,  to  the 
memory  of  his  early  years,  and  painted  in  glowing  colours  the  delicacy  of 
feeling,  the  deep  sense  of  gratitude,  and  the  latent  but  fervid  enthusiasm, 
which  adorned  the  character  of  Francis  Derham. 


83  ■  '6 


15§  LODORE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


It  Joes  much  trouble  me  to  live  without  you . 
Our  )o\es  and  loving  souls  have  been  so  used 
To  one  household  in  us. 

Beaumont  and  Fletche*. 

The  week  passed  on.  It  was  the  month  of  January,  and  very  cold. 
A  black  frost  bound  up  every  thing  with  ice,  and  the  piercing  air  congealed 
the  very  blood.  Each  day  Ethel  went  to  see  her  husband  ;  —  each  day 
she  had  to  encounter  Mrs.  Derham's  entreaties  not  to  go,  and  the  reproaches 
of  Villiers  for  coming.  Both  were  unavailing  to  prevent  the  daily  pilgrim- 
age. Mrs.  Derham  sighed  heavily  when  she  saw  her  enter  the  ricketty 
hackney-coach,  whose  damp  lining,  gaping  windows,  and  miserable  straw, 
made  it  a  cold  bed  for  catarrh — a  very  temple  for  the  spirit  of  winter 
Villiers  each  day  besought  her  to  have  horses  put  to  their  chariot,  if  she 
must  come  ;  but  Ethel  remembered  all  he  had  ever  said  of  expense,  and 
his  prognostications  of  how  ill  she  would  be  able  to  endure  the  petty, 
yet.  galling  annoyances  of  poverty ;  and  she  resolved  to  prove,  that  she 
could  cheerfully  bear  every  thing  except  separation  from  him.  With  this 
laudable  motive  to  incite  her,  she  tasked  her  strength  too  far.  She  kept 
up  her  spirits  to  meet  him  with  a  cheeiful  countenance ;  and  she  contrived 
to  conceal  the  sufferings  she  endured  while  they  were  together.  They  got 
out  and  walked  now  and  then  ;  and  this  tended  to  keep  up  the  vital  warmth. 
Their  course  was  generally  taken  over  Blackfnars  Bridge ;  and  it  was  on 
their  return  across  the  river,  on  whose  surface  large  masses  of  ice  floated, 
while  a  bitter  north-east  wind  swept  up,  bearing  on  its  blasts  the  unthawed 
breath  of  the  German  Ocean,  that  she  felt  the  cold  enter  her  heart,  and 
make  her  head  feel  dizzy.  Still  she  could  smile,  and  ask  Villiers  why  he 
objected  to  her  taking  an  exercise  even  necessary  for  her  health  ;  and  re- 
peat again  and  again,  that,  bred  in  America,  an  English  winter  was  but  a 
faint  reflex  of  what  she  had  encountered  there,  and  insist  upon  being  per 
mitf^d  to  come  on  the  following  day. 

Ivese  were  precious  moments  in  her  eyes,  worth  all  the  pain  they  occa- 
sioned,—  well  worth  the  struggle  she  made  for  the  repetition.  Edward's 
endearing  attentions  —  the  knowledge  she  had  that  she  was  loved  —  the 
swelling  and  earnest  affection  that  warmed  her  own  heart,  —  hallowed  these 
hard-earnea  minutes,  and  gave  her  the  sweet  pleasure  of  knowing  that  she 
demonstrated,  in  some  slight  degree,  the  profound  and  all-engrossing  attach- 
ment which  pervaded  her  entire  being.  They  parted  ;  and  often  she  ariived 
nearly  sanseless  at  Duke-street,  and  once  or  twice  fainted  on  entering 
the  warm  room  ;  but  it  was  not  pain  she  felt  then  —  the  emotions  of  the 
sou!  conquered  the  sensation  of  her  body,  and  pleasure,  the  intense  pleasure 
of  affection,  was  predominant  through  all. 

Sunday  came  again,  and  brought  Villiers  to  her  home.  Mrs.  Derham 
took  the  opportunity  to  represent  to  him  the  injury  that  Ethel  was  doing 
herself ;  and  begged  him,  as  he  cared  for  her  health,  to  forbid  her  exposing 
herself  to  the  inclement  weather. 

"  You  hear  this,  Ethel,"  said  Villiers  ;  "  and  yet  you  are  obstinate.  Is 
this  right?  What  can  I  urge,  what  can  I  do,  to  prevent  this  wrong-headed 
pertinacity  ?" 

"  You  use  such  very  hard  words,"  replied  Ethel,  smiling,  "  that  you  frighten 
me  into  believing  myself  criminal.  But  so  far  am  I  from  conceding^that 
you  only  give  me  courage  to  say  that  I  cannot  endure  any  longer  the  sad  and 
separate  life  we  lead.     It  must  be  changed,  dearest ;  we  mui£  be  together." 


LODORE.  J59 

Villiers  was  pacing  the  room  impatiently  :  with  an  exclamation  almost 
approaching  to  anger,  he  stopped  before  his  wife,  to  remonstrate  and  to  re- 
proach. But  as  he  gazed  upon  her  upturned  face,  fixed  so  beseechingly  and 
fondly  on  him,  he  fancied  that  he  saw  the  hues  of  ill  health  stealing  across 
her  cheeks,  and  thinnesss  displacing  the  roundness  of  her  form.  A  strange 
emotion  flashed  across  him.;  a  new  fear,  too  terrible  even  to  be  acknow- 
ledged to  himself,  which  passed,  like  the  shadow  of  a  storm,  across  his  anti- 
cipations, and  filled  him  with  inquietude.  His  reprehension  was  changed 
to  a  caress,  as  he  said,  "  You  are  right,  my  love,  quite  right;  we  must  not 
live  thus.  You  are  unable  to  take  care  of  yourself  •  and  t  am  very  wron?  to 
give  up  my  dearest  privilege,  of  watching  day  and  night  over  the  welfare  of 
my  only  treasure.  We  will  be  together,  Ethel  ;  if  the  worst  come,  it  cannot 
be  very  bad,  while  we  are  true  to  each  other." 

Tears  filled  the  poor  girl  s  eyes  —  tears  of  joy  and  tenderness  —  at  hearing 
Edward  echo  the  sentiments  she  cherished  as  the  most  sacred  in  the  world. 
For  a  few  minutes,  they  forgot  every  thing  in  the  affectionate  kiss,  which 
ratified,  as  it  were,  this  new  law  ;  and  then  Edward  considered  how  best  he 
could  carry  it  into  effect. 

"  Gayland,"  he  said,  (he  was  his  solicitor,)  "  has  appointed  to  see  me  on 
Thursday  morning,  and  has  good  hopes  of  definitively  arranging  the  condi- 
tions for  the  loan  of  the  five  hundred  pounds,  which  is  to  enable  us  to  wait 
for  better  things.  On  Thursday  evening  we  will  leave  town.  We  will  o-0  to 
some  pretty  country  inn,  to  wait  till  I  have  signed  these  papers ;  and  I  trust 
to  Providence  that  no  ill  will  arise.  We  must  not  be  more  than  fifteen  or 
twenty  miles  from  London ;  so  that  when  I  am  obliged  to  go  up,  I  can  re- 
turn again  in  a  few  hours.     Tell  me,  sweet,  does  this  scheme  please  you  ?" 

Ethel  expressed  her  warmest  gratitude ;  and  then  Villiers  insinuated  his 
condition,  that  she  should  not  come  to  see  him  in  the  interval,  but  remain, 
taking  care  of  herself,  till,  on  Thursday  afternoon,  at  six  o'clock,  she  came, 
with  their  chariot,  to  the  northern  side  of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  where  he 
would  immediately  join  her.  They  might  write,  meanwhile  :  he  promised 
letters  as  long  as  if  they  were  to  go  to  India ;  and  soothed  her  annoyance 
with  every  expression  of  thankfulness  at  her  giving  up  this  point.     She  did 

five  it  up  with  all  the  readiness  she  could  muster ;  and  this  increased,  as  he 
welt  upon  the  enjoyment  they  would  share,  in  exchanging  foggy,  smoky 
London,  for  the  ever-pleasing  aspect  of  nature,  which,  even  during  frost  and 
snow,  possesses  her  own  charms  —  her  own  wonders,  and  can  gratify  our 
senses  by  a  thousand  forms  of  beauty,  which  have  no  existence  in  a  dinsy 
met-opoiis. 

When  the  evening  hour  came  for  the  young  pair  to  separate,  their  hearts 
were  cheered  by  the  near  prospect  of  reunion  ;  and  a  belief  that  the,  to 
them,  trivial  privations  of  poverty  were  the  only  ones  they  would  have  to 
endure.  The  thrill  of  fear  which  had  crossed  the  mind  of  Villiers,  as  to  the 
health  and  preservation  of  his  wife,  had  served  to  dissipate  the  lingering 
sense  of  shame  and  degradation  inspired  by  the  penury  of  their  situation. 
He  felt  that  there  was  something  better  than  wealth,  and  the  attendance  of 
his  fellow-creatures  ;  something  worse  than  poverty,  and  the  world's  scorn. 
Within  the  fragile  form  of  Ethel,  there  beat  a  heart  of  more  worth  than  a 
king's  ransom  ;  and  its  pulsations  were  ruled  by  him.  To  lose  her  !  What 
would  all  that  earth  can  afford,  of  power  or  splendour,  appear  without  her? 
He  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  knew  that  his  arms  encircled  all  life's 
worth  for  him.  Never  again  could  he  forget  the  deep-felt  appreciation  of 
her  value,  which  then  took  root  in  his  mind  ;  while  she,  become  conscious, 
by  force  of  sympathy,  of  the  kind  of  revolution  that  was  made  in  his  senti- 
ments, felt  that  the  foundations  of  her  life  grew  strong,  and  that  her  hopes 
in  this  world  became  steadfast  and  enduring.  Before,  a  wall  of  separation, 
however  slight,  had  divided  them ;  they  had  followed  a  system  of  conduct 


160  LODORE. 


independent  of  each  other,  and  passed  their  censure  upon  the  ideas  of  either. 
This  was  over  now  —  they  were  one  --  one  sense  of  right  —  one  feeling  of 
happiness  ;  and  when  they  parted  that  night,  each  felt  that  they  truly  pos- 
sessed the  other ;  and  that  by  mingling  every  hope  and  wish,  they  had 
confirmed  the  marriage  of  their  hearts. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

• 

Think  but  whither 
iNnw  you  can  go  ;  what  you  can  do  to  live  ; 
How  near  you  have  barred  all  ports  to  your  own  succour 
Except  this  one  that  here  I  open,  love. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

The  most  pleasing  thoughts  shed  their  balmy  influence  on  Ethel's  repose 
that  nio-ht.  Edward's  scheme  of  a  country  inn,  where  the  very  freedom 
would  make  them  more  entirely  dependent  upon  each  other,  was  absolutely 
enchanting.  Where  we  establish  ourselves,  and  look  forward  to  the  pas- 
sage of  a  long  interval  of  time,  we  form  ties  with,  and  assume  duties  towards, 
many  of  our  fellow-creatures,  each  of  which  must  diminish  the  singleness  of 
the  soul's  devotion  towards  the  selected  one.  No  doubt  this  is  the  fitting 
position  tor  human  beings  to  place  themselves  in,  as  affording  a  greater 
scope  for  utility  :  but  for  a  brief  space,  to  have  nc  occupation  but  that  of 
contributing  to  the  happiness  of  him  to  whom  her  life  was  consecrated,  ap- 
peared to  Ethel  a  very  heaven  upon  earth.  It  was  not  that  she  was  narrow- 
hearted  :  so  much  affection  demands  a  spacious  mansion  for  its  abode  ;  but 
in  their  present  position  of  struggle  and  difficulty,  there  was  no  possibility 
of  extending  her  sphere  of  benevolence,  and  she  gladly  concentrated  her 
endeavours  in  the  one  object  whose  happiness  was  in  her  hands. 

All  nio-ht,  even  in  sleep,  a  peculiar  sense  of  calm  enjoyment  soothed  the 
mind  of  ^Ethel,  and  she  awoke  in  the  morning  with  buoyant  spirits,  and  a 
soul  all  alive  to  its  own  pleasurable  existence.  She  sat  at  her  little  solitary 
breakfast  table,  musing  with  still  renewed  delight  upon  the  prospect  opened 
before  her,  when  suddenly  she  was  startled  by  the  vision  of  an  empty  purse. 
What  could  Villiers  intend  ?  She  felt  assured  that  his  stock  was  very 
nearly  exhausted,  and  for  herself  two  sovereigns,  which  were  not  sufficient 
to  meet  the  demands  of  the  last  week,  was  all  that  she  possessed.  She 
tried  to  recollect  if  Edward  had  said  any  thing  that  denoted  any  expecta- 
tion of  receiving;  money  ;  on  the  contrary  —  diving  into  the  recesses  of  her 
memory,  she  called  to  mind  that  he  had  said,  "We  shall  receive  your  poor 
little  dividend  of  a  hundred  pounds,  in  less  than  a  fortnight,  so  we  shall  be 
able  to  live,  even  if  Gayland  should  delay  getting  the  other  money  —  I  sup- 
pose we  have  enough  to  get  on  till  then." 

He  had  said  this  inquiringly,  and  she  knew  that  she  had  made  a  sign  of 
assent,  though  at  the  time,  she  had  no  thought  of  the  real  purport  of  his 
question  or  of  her  answer.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  The  obvious  conse- 
quence of  her  reflections  was  at  once  to  destroy  the  cherished  scheme  of 
going  out  of  town  with  Villiers.  This  was  a  misfortune  too  great  to  bear, 
and  she  at  last  decided  upon  having  again  recourse  to  her  aunt.  Unused 
to  every  money  transaction,  she  had  not  that  terror  of  obligation,  nor  dis- 
like of  asking,  which  is  so  necessary  to  preserve  our  independence,  and 
even  our  sense  of  justice,  through  life.  Money  had  always  been  placed 
like  counters  in  her  hand  ;  she  had  never  known  whence  it  came,  and  until 
her  marriage,  she  had  never  disposed  of  more  than  very  small  sums.  Sub- 
sequently Villiers  had  been  the  director  of  their  expenses.     This  wa3  the 


LODORE.  361 

faulty  part  of  her  father's  system  of  education.  But  Lodore's  domestic 
h<*nits  were  for  a  great  part  founded  on  experience  in  foreign  countries,  and 
hn  forgot  that  an  English  wife  is  u&ually  the  cashier  —  the  sole  controller 
oT  the  disbursemants  of  her  family.  It  seemed  as  easy  a  thing  for  Ethel  to 
a=K.  for  money  from  Mrs.  Fitzhenry,  as  she  Knew  it  would  he  easy  for  her 
to  give.  In  compliance,  however,  with  Villiers's  notions,  she  limited  her 
request  to  ten  pounds,  and  tried  to  word  her  letters  so  as  to  create  no 
suspicion  in  her  aunt's  mind  with  regard  to  their  resources.  This  task 
a^aieved,  she  dismissed  every  annoying  thought,  and  when  Fanny  came 
to  express  her  hope,  that,  bleak  and  snowy  as  was  the  day,  she  did  not  in- 
tend to  make  her  accustomed  pilgrimage,  with  a  countenance  beaming  with 
delight,  she  dilated  on  their  plan,  and  spoke  as  if  on  the  much-desired 
Thursday  the  gates  of  Elysium  were  to  be  thrown  open  for  her. 

There  would  have  appeared  something  childish  in  her  gladness  to  the 
abstracted  and  philosophic  mind  of  Fanny,  but  that  the  real  evils  of  her 
situation,  and  the  fortitude,  touching  in  its  unconscious  simplicity,  with 
wiiich  she  encountered  them,  commanded  respect.  Ethel,  as  well  as  her 
friend,  was  elevated  above  the  common  place  of  life ;  she  also  fostered  a 
state  of  mind,  "  lofty  and  magnificent,  fitted  rather  to  command  than  to 
obsy,  not  only  suffering  patiently,  but  even  making  light  of  all  human 
cares  ;  a  grand  and  dignified  self-possession,  which  fears  nothing,  yields 
to  no  one,  and  remains  for  ever  unvanquished."  When  Fanny,  in  one  of 
their  conversations,  white  describing  the  uses  of  philosophy,  had  translated 
this  eulogium  of  its  effects  from  Cicero,  Ethel  had  exclaimed,  "  This  is 
love— -it  is  love  atone  that  divides  us  from  sordid  earth-born  thoughts,  and 
causes  us  to  walk  alone,  girt  by  its  own  beauty  and  power." 

Fanny  smiled  ;  yet  while  she  saw  slavery  rather  than  a  proud  inde- 
pendence in  the  creed  of  Ethel,  she  admired  the  warmth  of  heart  which 
could  endow  with  so  much  brilliancy  a  state  of  privation  and  solitude.  At 
the  present  moment,  when  Mrs.  Villiers  was  rapturously  announcing  their 
scheme  for  leaving  London,  an  expression  of  pain  mantled  over  Fann)  3 
features  ;  her  clear  blue  eyes  became  suffused  —  a  large  tear  gathered  on  her 
lashes.     "  What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Ethel  anxiously. 

"  That  I  am  a  fool  —but  pardon  me,  for  the  fally  is  already  passed  away. 
For  the  first  time  you  have  made  it  hard  for  me  to  keep  my  soul  firm  in  its 
own  single  existence.  I  have  been  debarred  from  all  intercourse  with  those 
whose  ideas  rise  above  the  soil  on  which  they  tread,  except  in  my  dear  books, 
and  I  thought  I  should  never  be  attached  to  any  thing  but  them.  Yet  do 
not  think  me  selfish  ;  Mr.  Villiers  is  quite  right  —  it  is  much  better  that  you 
should  not  be  apart  —  I  am  delighted  with  his  plan." 

"  Away  or  near,  dear  Fanny,"  said  Ethel,  in  a  caressing  tone,  "  I  never 
can  forget  your  kindness  —  never  cease  to  feel  the  warmest  friendship  for 
you.  Remember,  our  fathers  were  friends,  and  their  children  ought  to 
inherit  the  same  faithful  attachment." 

Fanny  smiled  faintly.  "  You  must  not  seduce  me  from  my  resolves," 
she  said.  "  I  know  my  fate  in  this  world,  and  I  am  determined  to  be  true 
to  myself  to  the  end.  Yet  I  am  not  ungrateful  to  you,  even  while  1  declare 
that  I  shall  do  my  best  to  forget  this  brief  interval,  during  which,  I  have  no 
longer,  like  Demogorgon,  lived  atone  in  my  own  world,  but  become  aware 
that  there  are  ties  of  sympathy  between  me  and*  my  fellow  creatures,  in 
whose  existence  I  did  not  believe  before." 

Fanny's  language,  drawn  from  her  books,  not  because  she  tried  to  imitate, 
but  because  conversing  perpetually  with  them,  it  was  natural  that  she  should 
adopt  their  style,  was  always  energetic  and  imaginative  ;  but  her  quiet 
manner  destroyed  every  idea  of  exaggeration  of  sentiment :  it  was  neces- 
sary to  hear  her  soft  and  low,  but  very  distinct  voice,  utter  her  lofty  senti- 
6* 


i62  LODORE, 

merits,  to  be  conscious  that  the  calm  of  deep  waters  was  the  element  in 
which  she  dwelt  — not  the  fretful  breakers  that  spend  themselves  in  souna. 

The  day  seemed  rather  long  to  Ethel,  who  counted  the  houis  until  1  hurs- 
day.  Gladly  she  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow  at  night,  and  bade  adieu  to 
the  foregone  hours.  The  first  thing  that  awoke  her  in  the  morning  waa 
the  postman's  knock ;  it  brought,  as  she  had  been  promised,  a  long,  Ions 
letter  from  Edward.  He  had  newer  before  written  with  so  much  affection 
or  with  such  an  overflowing  of  tenderness,  that  made  her  the  centre  of  »iis 
world — the  calm  fair  lake,  to  receive  into  its  bosom  the  streams  of  thought 
and  feeling  which  flowed  from  him,  and  yet  which,  after  all,  had  their 
primal  source  in  her.  "  I  am  a  very  happy  girL,"  thought  Ethel,  as  she 
kissed  the  beloved  papers,  and  gazed  on  them  in  ecstasy  ;  "  more  happy 
than  I  thought  it  was  ever  given  us  to  be  in  this  world." 

She  rose  and  began  to  dress  ;  she  delayed  reading  more  than  a  line  or 
two,  that  she  might  enJGy  her  dearest  pleasure  for  a  longer  time  —  then 
again,  unable  to  control  her  impatience,  she  sat  half-dressed,  and  finished 
all  —  and  was  beginning  anew,  when  there  was  a  tap  at  her  door.  It  was 
Fanny.  She  looked  disturbed  and  anxious,  and  Ethel's  fears  were  in  a 
momont  awake. 

"  Something  annoying  has  occurred,"  she  said  ;  "  yet  I  do  not  think  that 
there  is  any  thing  to  dread,  though  there  is  a  danger  to  prevent." 

"  Speak  quickly,"  cried  Ethel ;  "  do  not  keep  me  in  suspense." 

"  Be  calm  —  it  is  nothing  sudden,  it  is  only  a  repetition  of  the  old  story. 
A  boy  has  just  been  here  —  a  boy  you  gave  a  sovereign  to  —  do  you  remem- 
ber?—  the  night  of  your  arrival!  It  seems  that  he  has  vowed  himself  to 
your  service  ever  since.  Those  two  odious  men,  who  were  here  once,  are 
often  at  his  master's  place  —  an  alehouse,  you  know.  Well,  yesterday 
night  he  overheard  them  saying  that  Mr.  Villiers's  resort  at  the  London 
coffee-house  was  discovered,  or  at  least  suspected,  and  that  a  writ  was  to 
be  taken  out  against  him  in  the  city." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?"  cried  Ethel. 

"  That  Mr.  Villiers  will  probably  be  arrested  to-day,  or  to-morrow,  if  he 
remains  where  he  is." 

"  I  will  go  directly  to  him,"  cried  Ethel ;  "  we  must  leave  town  at  once. 
God  grant  that  I  am  not  too  late !" 

Seeing  her  extreme  agitation,  Fanny  remained  with  her  ■ —  forced  her  to 
take  some  breakfast,  and  then,  fearing  that  if  any  thing  had  really  taken 
place  she  would  be  quite  bewildered,  asked  her  permission  to  accompany 
her.  is  Will  you  indeed  come  with  me  ?"  Ethel  exclaimed.  "  How  dear, 
how  good  you  are !  Oh  yes,  do  come  —  I  can  never  go  through  it  all  alone  ; 
I  shall  die  if  I  do  not  find  him." 

A  hackney  coach  had  been  called,  and  they  hastened  with  what  speed 
they  might,  to  their  destination.  A  kind  of  panic  seized  upon  Ethel,  a 
tremor  shook  her  limbs,  so  that  when  they  at  last  stopped,  she  was  unable 
to  speak.  Fanny  was  about  to  ask  for  Mr.  Villiers,  when  an  exclamation 
of  joy  from  Ethel  stopped  her.  Edward  had  seen  them,  and  was  at  the 
coach  door.  The  snow  lay  thick  around  on  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  and  on 
every  atom  of  vantage  ground  it  could  obtain  ;  it  was  then  snowing,  and  as 
the  chilly  fleece  dropped  through  or  was  driven  about  in  the  dark  atmosphere, 
it  spread  a  most  disconsolate  appearance  over  every  thing ;  and  nothing 
could  look  more  dreary  than  poor  Ethel's  jumbling  vehicle,  with  its  drooping 
animals,  and  the  half-frozen  driver.  Villiers  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
should  never  be  mortified  by  seeing  her  again  in  this  sort  of  equipage,  and 
he  hurried  down,  the  words  of  reproach  already  on  his  lips.  "  Is  this  your 
promise  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  dearest,  it  is.  Come  in,  there  is  danger  here.  —Come  in  —  we 
must  go  directly." 


LODORE.  163 

Seeing  Fanny,  Villiers  became  aware  that  there  was  some  absolute 
cause  for  their  journey,  so  he  obeyed,  and  quickly  heard  the  danger  that 
threatened  him.  "It  would  have  been  better,"  he  said,  "that  you  had 
corns  in  the  carriage,  and  that  we  had  instantly  left  town." 

"  Impossible  !  '  cried  Ethel ;  •'  till  to  morrow  —  that  is  quite  impossible. 
We  have  no  money  until  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  my  love,  since  it  is  so,  we  must  arrange  as  well  as  we  can.  Do 
you  return  home  immediately  —  this  cold  will  kill  you.  I  will  take  care  of 
riyself.  and  you  can  come  for  me  on  Thursday  evening,  as  we  proposed." 

"  Do  not  ask  it  of  me,  Edward,"  said  Ethel ;  "  I  cannot  leave  you.  I 
could  never  live  through  these  two  days  a\$ay  from  you  —  you  must  not 
desire  it — you  will  kill  me." 

Edward  kissed  her  pale  cheek.  "  You  tremble,"  he  said;  "how  vio- 
lently you  tremble!  Good  God!  what  can  we  do?  What  would  you 
have  me  do  ?" 

"  Any  thing,  so  that  we  remain  together.  It  is  of  so  little  consequence 
where  we  pass  the  next  twenty -four  hours,  so  that  we  are  together.  There 
are  many  hotels  in  town." 

"  I  must  not  ventu  e  to  any  of  these ;  and  then  to  take  you  in  this  mis- 
erable manner,  without,  servants,  or  any  thing  to  command  attendance. 
But  you  shall  have  your  own  way;  having  deprived  you  of  every  other  lux- 
ury, at  least,  you  shall  have  your  will ;  which,  you  know,  compensates  for 
every  thin  5  with  your  obstinate  sex." 

Ethel  smiled,  rejoicing  to  find  him  in  so  good  and  accommodating  a 
humour.  "  Yes  pretty  one,"  he  continued,  marking  her  feelings,  "  you 
shall  be  as  wretched  and  uncomfortable  as  your  heart  can  desire.  We  will 
play  the  incognito  in  such  a  style,  that  if  our  adventures  were  printed,  they 
would  compete  with  those  of  Don  Q,uixote  and  the  fair  Dulcinea.  But 
Miss  Dsrham  must  not  be  admitted  into  our  vagabondizing  —  we  will  not 
detain  her." 

"  Yet  she  must  know  whither  we  are  going,  to  bring  us  the  letters  that 
will  confer  freedom  on  us." 

Villiers  wrote  hastily  an  address  on  a  card.  "You  will  find  us  there," 
he  said.  "  Do  not  mention  names  when  you  come.  We  shall  remain,  I 
suppose,  till  Thursday." 

''But  we  shall  see  you  some  time  to-morrow,  dear  Fanny?"  asked 
Ethel.  Already  she  looked  bright  and  happy;  she  esteemed  herself  for- 
tunate to  have  gained  so  easily  a  point  she  had  feared  she  must  struggle  for 
—  or  perhaps  give  up  altogether.  Fanny  left  them,  and  the  coachman 
having  received  his  directions,  drove  slowly  on  through  the  deep  snow, 
which  fell  thickly  on  the  road ;  while  they,  nestling  close  to  each  other, 
weia  so  engrossed  by  the  gladness  of -reunion,  that  had  Cinderella's  god- 
mother transmuted  their  crazy  vehicle  for  a  golden  coach,  redolent  of  the 
perfumes  of  fairy  land,  they  had  scarcely  been  aware  of  the  change.  Their 
own  hearts  formed  a  more  real  fairy  land,  which  accompanied  them  whith- 
ersoever they  went,  and  could  as  easily  spread  its  enchantments  over  the 
shattered  machine  in  which  they  now  jumbled  along,  as  amidst  the  cloth  of 
gold  and  marbles  o'  in  eastern  palace. 


164  LODORE. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

Few  people  know  how  little  is  necessary  to  live.  What  is  called  or  thought  hard- 
ship is  nothing ;  one  unhappy  feeling  is  worse  than  a  thou- and  years  of  it. 

Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 

Uncertain  what  to  do,  Vilhers  had  hastily  determined  that  they  should 
take  up  their  abode  at  a  little  inn  near  Brixton,  to  wait  till  Thursday.  He 
did  not  know  the  place  except  by  having  passed  it,  and  observed  a  smart 
landlady  at  the  door  ;  so  he  trusted  that  it  would  be  neat  and  clean.  There 
was  nothing  imposing  in  the  appearance  of  the  young  pair  and  their  hack- 
ney coach,  accordingly  there  was  no  bustling  civility  displayed  to  receive 
them.  However,  when  the  fire  was  once  lighted,  the  old-fashioned  sofa 
drawn  near,  and  dinner  ordered,  they  sat  together  and  felt  very  happy  ; 
outcasts  though  they  were,  wanderers  from  civilized  existence,  shut  out, 
through  poverty,  from  the  refinements  and  gilt,  elegances  of  life.  • 

One  only  cloud  there  was,  when  Villiers  asked  his  wife  an  explanation 
about  their  resources,  and  inquired  whence  she  expected  to  receive  money 
on  the  following  day.  Ethel  explained.  Villiers  looked  disturbed.  There 
was  something  almost  of  anger  in  his  voice,  when  he  said,  "  And  so,  Ethel, 
you  feel  no  compunction  in  acting  in  exact  opposition  to  my  wishes,  my 
principles,  my  resolves  ?" 

"But,  dear  Edward,  what  can  principles  have  to  do  with  borrowing  a 
few  pounds  from  dear  good  Aunt  Bessy  ?     Besides,  we  can  repay  her." 

"  Be  assured  that  we  shall,"  replied  Villiers  ;  "  and  you  will  never  again, 
1  trust,  behave  so  unjustly  by  me.  There  are  certain  things  in  which  we 
must  jud^e  and  act  for  ourselves,  and  the  question  of  money  transactions 
is  one.  I  may  suffer —  and  you,  alas  !  may  also,  through  poverty  ;  though 
you  have  taken  pains  to  persuade  me,  that  you  do  not  feel  the  struggles, 
which,  for  your  sake  chiefly,  imbitter  my  existence.  Yet  they  are  nothing 
in  comparison  with  the  loss  of  my  independence  —  the  sense  of  obligation 
—  the  knowledge  that  my  kind  friends  can  talk^over  my  affairs,  take  me 
to  task,  and  call  me  a  burden  to  them.  Why  am  I  as  I  am?  I  have 
friends  and  connexions  who  would  readily  assist  me  at  this  extremity,  if  I 
asked  it,  and  I  might  turn  their  kind  feelings  into  steiling  gold  if  I  would  ; 
but  I  have  no  desire  to  work  this  transmutation  —  I  prefer  their  friendship." 

"Do  you  mean,"  inquired  his  wife,  "  that  your  friends  would  not  love 
you  the  better  for  having  been  of  service  to  you  ?" 

"If  they  could  serve  me  without  annoyance  to  themselves  they  might  ; 
but  high  in  rank  and  wealthy  as  many  of  my  relations  are,  there  is  not 
one  among  them,  at  least  of  those  to  whom  I  could  have  recourse,  who 
do  not  dispose  of  their  resources  to  the  uttermost  shilling,  in  their  own 
way.  I  then  come  to  interfere  with  and  to  disarrange  their  plans ;  at 
first,  this  misht  not  be  much  —  but  presently*  they  would  weigh  me 
against  the  gold  I  needed,  and  it  might  happen,  that  my  scale  would  kick 
the  beam. 

"  I  speak  for  myself,  not  for  others  ;  I  may  be  too  proud,  too  sensitive  — 
but  so  I  am.  Ever  since  I  knew  what  pecuniary  obligations  were,  I  re- 
solved to  lay  under  such  to  no  man,  and  this  resolve  was  stronger  than  my 
love  for  you  ;  judge  therefore  of  its  force,  and  the  violence  you  do  me, 
when  you  would  oblige  me  to  act  against  it.  Did  I  begin  to  borrow,  a 
train  of  thoughts  would  enter  the  lender's  mind  ;  the  consciousness  of 
which  would  haunt  me  like  a  crime.     My  actions  would  be  -scanned  —  1 


LODORE.  ](35 

should  be  blamed  for  this,  rebuked  for  that — even  your  name,  my  Ethel, 
which  I  would  place,  like  a  star  in  the  sky,  far  above  their  mathematical 
measurements,  would  become  stale  in  their  mouths,  a.id  the  propriety  of 
our  marriage  canvassed  :   could  you  bear  that  ?" 

'•  I  yield  to  all  you  say,"  she  answered  ;  "  yet  this  is  strange  morality. 
Are  generosity,  benevolence  and  gratitude  to  be  exploded  among  us  ?  la 
justice,  which  orders  that  the  rich  give  of  his  superfluity  to  the  poor,  to  be 
banished  from  the  world  ?" 

"  You  are  eloquent,"  said  Villiers  ;  "but,  my  little  wild  American,  this 
is  philosophy  for  the  back  woods  only.  We  have  got  beyond  the  primeval 
simplicity  of  baiter  and  exchange  among  gentlemen  ;  and  it  is  such  if  I 
give  gratitude  in  return  for  fifty  pounds  :  by-and-by  my  fellow-trader  may 
grumble  at  the  bargain.  All  this  will  become  very  clear  to  you  hereafter, 
I  fear  —  when  knowledge  of  the  world  teaches  you  what  sordid  knaves  we 
all  are  ;  it  is  to  prevent  your  learning  tms  lesson  in  a  painful  way,  that  I 
guard  you  so  jealously  from  making  a  wrong  step  at  this  crisis." 

*  You  speak  of  dreams,"'  saiJ  Ethel,  "as  if  dear  Aunt  Bessy  would  feel 
any  thing  but  pleasure  in  sending  her  mite  to  her  own  dear  niece." 

"I  have  told  you  what  I  wish,"  replied  her  husband  ;  "  my  honour  is  in 
your  hands  ;  and  1  implore  you,  on  this  point,  to  preserve  it  in  the  way  I 
desire.  There  is  but  one  relationship  that  authorizes  any  thing  like  com- 
munity of  goods,  it  is  that  of  parent  and  child ;  but  we  are  orphans,  dear- 
est —  step-children,  who  are  not  permitted  to  foster  our  filial  sentiments. 
My  father  is  unworthy  of  his  name  — the  animal  who  destroys  its  off'sprintr 
at  its  birth  is  merciful  in  comparison  with  him:  had  he  cast  me  off  at  once, 
I  should  have  hardened  my  hands  with  labour,  and  earned  my  daily  bread  ; 
but  I  was  trained  to  "  hi^h-bom  necessities,"  and  have  all  the  "  wide  wants 
and  narrow  powers"  of  the  heir  of  wealth.  But  let  us  dismiss  this  un- 
grateful subject.  I  never  willingly  advert,  even  in  my  own  mind,  to  my 
father's  unpaternal  conduct.  Let  us  instead  fancy,  sweet  love,  that  we 
were  bo  n  to  what  we  have  —  that  we  are  cottagers,  the  children  of  me- 
chanics or  wanderers  in  a  barbarous  country,  where  money  is  not;  and 
imagine  that  this  repose,  this  cheerful  fire,  this  shelter  from  the  pelting 
snow  without,  is  an  unexpected  blessing.  Strip  a  man  bare  to  what  nature 
made  him,  and  place  him  here,  and  what  a  hoard  of  luxury  and  wealth 
would  not  this  room  contain  !  In  the  Illinois,  love,  few  mansions  could 
compete  with  this." 

This  was  speaking  in  a  language  which  Ethel  could  easily  comprehend  ; 
she  had  several  times  wished  to  express  this  very  idea,  but  she  feared  to 
hurt  the  refined  and  exclusive  feelings  of  her  husband.  A  splendid  dwell- 
ing, costly  living,  and  many  attendants,  were  with  her  the  adjuncts,  not 
the  material,  of  lift.  If  the  stage  on  which  she  played  her  part  was  to  be 
so  decorated,  it  was  well ;  if  otherwise,  the  change  did  not  merit  her  atten-  • 
tion.  Love  scoffed  at  such  idle  trappings,  and  could  build  his  tent  of  can- 
vass, and  sleep  close  nestled  in  her  heart  as  softly,  being  only  the  more 
iovelv  and  the  more  true,  from  the  absence  of  every  meretricious  ornament. 
This  was  another  of  Ethd's  happy  evenings,  when  she  felt  drawn  close 
to  him  she  loved,  and  found  Elysium  in  the  intimate  union  of  their  thoughts. 
The  dusky  room  showed  them  but  half  to  each  other ;  and  the  looks  of 
each,  beaming  with  tenderness,  drank  life  from  one  another's  gaze.  The 
soft  shadows  thrown  on  their  countenances,  gave  a  lamp  like  lustre  to  their 
eyes,  in  which  the  purest  spirit  of  affection  sat,  weaving  such  unity  of  sen 
tnnent,  such  strong  bonds  of  attachment,  as  made  life  dwindle  to  a  point, 
and  freighted  the  passing  minute  with  the  hopes  and  fears  of  their  entire  ex- 
istence.    Not  much  was  said,  and  their  words  were  childish  —  words 

Tntellette  dar  loro  soli  ambedui, 


166  LODORE. 

which  a  listener  would  have  judged  to  be  meaningless.  But  the  mystery  ol 
love  gave  a  deep  sense  to  each  syllable.  The  hours  flew  lightly  away, 
There  was  nothing  to  interrupt,  nothing  to  disturb.  Night  came  and  the 
day  was  at  an  end  ;  but  Ethel  looked  forward  to  the  next,  with  faith  in  its 
equal  felicity,  and  did  not  regret  the  fleet  passage  of  time. 

T.hfty  had  been  asked  during  the  evening  if  they  were  going  by  any  early 
coach  on  the  following  morning,  and  a  simple  negative  was  given.  On  that 
morning  they  sat  at  their  breakfast,  with  some  diminution  of  the  sanguine 
hopes  of  the  previous  evening.  For  morning  is  the  time  for  action,  of  look- 
ing forward,  of  expectation,  —  and  they  must  spend  this  in  waiting,  cooped 
up  in  a  little  room,  overlooking  no  cheering  scene.  A  high  road,  thickly 
covered  with  snow,  on  which  various  vehicles  were  perpetually  passing, 
was  immediately  before  them.  Opposite  was  a  row  of  mean-looking  houses, 
between  which  might,  be  distinguished  low  fields  buried  in  snow ;  and  the 
dreary  dark-looking  sky  bending  over  all,  added  to  the  forlorn  aspect  of 
nature.  Villiers  was  very  impatient  to  get  away,  yet  another  day  must  be 
passed  here,  and  there  was  no  help. 

On  the  breakfast-table  the  waiter  had  placed  the  bill  of  the  previous  day ; 
it  remained  unnoticed,  and  he  left  it  on  the  table  when  the  things  were  taken 
away.     "  I  wonder  when  Fanny  will  come,"  said  Ethel. 

'  Perhaps  not  at  all  to-day,''  observed  Villiers.  "  She  knows  that  we  in- 
tend to  remain  till  to-morrow  here  ;  and  if  your  aunt's  letter  is  delayed  till 
then,  I  see  no  chance  of  her  coming,  nor  any  use  in  it." 

"  But  Aunt  Bessy  will  not  delay ;  her  answer  is  certain  of  arriving  this 
morning." 

"  So  you  imagine,  love.  You  know  little  of  the  various  chances  that  wait 
upon  borrowing." 

Soon  after,  unable  to  bear  confinement  to  the  house,  uneasy  in  his 
thoughts,  and  desirous  a  little  to  dissipate  them  by  exercise,  Villiers  went 
out.  Ethel,  taking  a  small  Shakspeare,  which  her  husband  had  had  with 
him  at  the  coffee-house,  occupied  herself  by  reading,  or  turning  from  the 
written  page  to  her  own  thoughts,  gave  herself  up  to  reverie,  dwelling  on 
many  an  evanescent  idea,  and  reverting  delightedly  to  many  scenes,  which 
her  memory  recalled.  She  was  one  of  those  who  "  know  the  pleasures  of 
solitude,  when  we  hold  commune  alone  with  the  tranquil  solemnity  of 
nature."  The  thought  of  her  father,  of  the  Illinois,  and  the  measureless 
forest,  rose  before  her,  and  in  her  ear  was  the  dashing  of  the  stream  which 
flowed  near  their  abode.  Her  light  feet  again  crossed  the  prairie,  and  a 
thousand  appearances  of  sky  and  earth,  departed  for  ever,  were  retraced  in 
her  brain.  "  Would  not  Edward  be  happy  there?"  she  thought:  "why 
should  we  not  go?  We  should  miss  dear  Horatio;  but  what  else  could 
we  regret  that  we  leave  behind  ?  and  perhaps  he  would  join  us,  and  'hen 
we  should  be  quite  happy."  And  then  her  fancy  pictured  her  new  home 
and  all  its  delights,  till  her  eyes  were  suffused  with  tender  feeling,  as  her 
imagination  sketched  a  variety  of  scenes  —  the  pleasant  labours  of  cultiva- 
tion, the  rides,  the  hunting,  the  boating,  all  common-place  occurrences, 
which,  attended  on  by  love,  were  exalted  into  a  perpetual  gorgeous  proces- 
sion of  beatified  hours.  And  then  again  she  allowed  to  herself  that  1  umpe 
or  America  could  contain  the  same  delights.  She  recollected  Italy,  and  her 
feelings  grew  more  solemn  and  blissful  as  she  meditated  on  the  wondrous 
beauty  and  changeful  but  deep  interest  of  that  land  of  memory. 

Villiers  did  not  return  for  some  hours  ;  — he  also  had  indulged  in  revene — 
long-drawn,  but  not  quite  so  pleasant  as  that  of  his  inexperienced  wife. 
The  realities  of  life  were  kneaded  up  too  entirely  with  his  prospects  ann 
schemes,  for  them  to  assume  the  fairy  hues  that  adorned  Ethel's.  He  could 
not  see  the  end  to  his  present  struggle  for  the  narrowest  independence. 
Very  slender  hopes  had  been  held  out  to  him  ;  and  thus  he  was  to  drag 


LODORE.  267 

otft  an  imbiftered  existence,  spent  upon  sordid  cares,  till  his  father  died  — 
an  ungrateful  idea,  from  which  he  turned  with  a  sigh.  He  walked  speed- 
ily, on  account  of  the  cold  ;  and  as  his  blood  began  to  circulate  more  cheerily 
in  his  frame,  a  change  came  over  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts.  From  the  midst 
*>f  th?  desolation  in  which  he  was  lost,  a  vision  of  happiness  arose,  that 
forced  itself  on  his  speculations,  in  spite  as  he  imagined,  of  his  better  reason. 
The  image  of  an  elegant  home,  here  or  in  Italy,  adorned  by  Ethel  —  cheer- 
ed by  the  presence  of  friends,  unshadowed  by  any  cares,  presented  itself  to 
his  mind  with  strange  distinctness  and  pertinacity.  At  no  time  had  Villiers 
loved  so  passionately  as  now.  The  difficulties  of  their  situation  had  exalted 
h  r,  who  shared  them  with  such  cheerful  fortitude,  into  an  angel  of  conso- 
lation. The  pride  of  man  in  possessing  the  affection  of  this  lovely  and 
noble-minded  creature,  was  bl  -nded  with  the  tenderest  desire  of  protecting 
and  serving  her.  His  heart  glowed  with  honest  joy  at  the  reflection  that 
her  happiness  depended  upon  him  solely,  and  that  he  was  ready  to  devote 
his  life  to  secure  it.  Was  there  any  action  too  arduous,  any  care  too  minute, 
to  display  his  gratitude  and  his  perfect  affection  ?  As  his  recollection  came 
back,  he  found  that  he  was  at  a  considerable  distance  from  her  ;  so  he  swiftly 
turned  his  steps  homeward,  (that  was  his  home  where  she  was,)  and 
scarcely  felt  that  he  trod  earth  as  he  recollected  that,  each  moment  carried 
him  nearer,  and  that  he  should  soon  meet  the  fond  gaze  of  the  kindest, 
sweetest  eyes  in  the  world. 

Thus  they  met,  with  a  renewed  joy,  after  a  short  absence,  each  reaping, 
from  their  separate  meditations,  a  fresh  harvest  of  loving  thoughts  and  in- 
terchange of  grat<_ml  emotion.  Great  was  the  pity  that  such  was  their 
situation  —  that,  circumstances,  all  mean  and  trivial,  drew  them  from  their 
heaven-high  elevation,  to  *he  more  sordid  cares  of  this  dirty  planet.  Yet 
why  name  it  pity  ?  their  pure  natures  could  turn  the  grovelling  su^ocai»oo 
presented  to  them,  to  ambrosial  food  for  the  sustenance  of  love. 


CHAPTER  XLI1. 

There's  a  blis^  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel  has  told, 

When  two  ihar  are  linked  in  one  heavenly  le 
With  heart  never  changing    ami  brow  never  cold, 
Love  on  through  all  ills,  and  love  on  till  they  die. 

Lalla  Rooeh. 

Villiers  had  not  been  returned  long,  when  the  waiter  came  in,  and  in- 
formed them,  that  his  mistress  declined  serving  their  dinner,  till  their  bill  of 
the  morning  was  paid  ;  and  then  he  left,  the  room.  The  gentle  pair  looked 
at  each  other,  and  laughed.  "  We  must  wait  till  Fanny  comes,  I  fear,"  said 
Eth^l ;  "  for  mv  purse  is  literally  empty." 

"  And  if  Miss  Derham  should  not  come?"  remarked  Villiers. 

"But  she  will !  —  she  has  delayed,  but  T  am  perfectly  certain  that  she  will 
com-  in  the  course  of  the  day  :   I  do  not  feel  the  least  doubt  about  it." 

To  quicken  the  passage  of  time,  Ethel  employed  herself  in  netting  a  purse, 
'the  inutility  of  which  Villiers  smilingly  remarked,)  while  her  husband  read 
1  o  her  sr»me  of  the  scenes  from  Shakspeare's  play  of  "  Troilus  and  Cressida." 
The  profound  philosophy  and  intense  passion  of  this  drama,  adorned  by 
the  most  magnificent  poetry  that  can  even  be  found  in  the  pages  of  this 
prince  of  poets,  caused  each  to  hang  attentive  and  dplighted  upon  their  oc- 
cupation. As  it  suew  dark,  Villiers  stirred  up  the  fire,  and  still  went  on  j 
till  having  with  difficulty  deciphered  the  lines  — 


108  LODOftE. 

"  She  was  beloved  —  she  loved  ;  —  she  is,  and  doth  ? 
But  stili  sweet  love  is  food  for  fortune's  tooth,"  — 

he  closed  the  book.  "  It  is  in  vain,"  he  said  ;  ".  our  liberator  does  notcome  5 
and  these  churls  will  not  give  us  lights." 

"  It  is  early  yet,  dearest,"  replied  Ethel ;  —  not  yet  four  o'clock.  "Would 
Troilns  and  Cressida  have  repined  at  having-Jjeen  left  darkling  a  few 
minutes  ?  How  much  happier  we  are  than  all  the  heroes  and  heroines  tha, 
ever  lived  or  were  imagined !  they  grasped  at  the  mere  shadow  of  the  thing, 
whose  substance  we  absolutely  possess.  Let  us  know  and  acknowledge 
our  good  fortune.     God  knows,  I  do,  and  am  beyond  words  grateful !" 

"  tt  is  much  to  be  grateful  for  —  sharing  the  fortunes  of  a  ruined  man !" 

"  You  do  not  speak  as  Troilus  does,"  replied  Ethel  smiling :  "  he  knew 
better  the  worth  of  love  compared  with  worldly  trifles." 

"  You  would  have  me  protest,  then,"  said  Villiers  ;  — 

"  But  alas ! 
I  am  as  true  as  truth's  simplicity, 
And  simpler  than  the  infancy  of  truth;'* 

so  that  all  I  can  say  is,  that  you  are  a  very  ill-used  little  girl,  to  be  mated  as 
you  are  —  so  buried,  with  all  your  loveliness,  in  this  obscurity  —  so  bound, 
though  akin  to  heaven,  to  the  basest  d  oss  of  earth." 

"  You  are  poetical,  dearest,  and  I  thank  you.  For  my  own  part,  I  am 
in  love  with  ill  luck.  I  do  not  think  we  should  have  discovered  how  very 
dear  we  are  to  each  other,  had  we  sailed  for  ever  on  a  summer  sea." 

Such  talk,  a  little  prolonged,  at  length  dwindled  to  silence.  Edward 
drew  her  nearer  to  him  ;  and  as  his  arm  encircled  her  waist,  she  placed  her 
sweet  head  on  his  bosom,  and  they  remained  in  silent  reverie.  He,  as  with 
his  other  hand  he  piaved  with  her  shining  ringlets,  and  parted  them  on  her 
fair  brow,  was  disturbed  in  thought,  and  saddened  by  a  sense  of  degrada- 
tion. Not  to  be  able  to  defend  the  angelic  creature,  who  depended  on  him, 
from  the  world's  insults,  galled  his  soul,  and  imbittered  even  the  heart's 
union  that  existed  between  them.  She  did  not  think  —  she  did  not  know 
of  these  things.  After  many  minutes  of  silence,  she  said,  —  "I  have  been 
trying  to  discover  why  it  is  absolute  pleasure  to  suffer  pain  for  those  we 
1   love." 

"  Pleasure  in  pain  !  —  you  speak  riddles." 

"  I  do,"  she  replied,  raising  her  head  ;  "  but  I  have  divined  this.  The 
great  pleasure  of  love  is  derived  from  sympathy  —  the  feeling  of  union  —  of 
unity.  Any  thing  that  makes  us  alive  to  the  sense  of  love  —  that  imprints 
deeper  on  our  plastic  consciousness  the  knowledge  of  the  existence  of  our 
affection,  causes  an  increase  of  happiness.  There  are  two  things  to  which 
We  are  most  sensitive —  pleasure  and  pain.  But  habit  can  somewhat  dull 
the  first;  and  that  which  was  in  its  newness  ecstasy  —  our  being  joined 
for  ever  —  becomes,  like  the  air  we  breathe,  a  thing  we  could  not  live  with- 
out, but  yet  in  which,  we  are  rather  passively  than  actively  happy.  But 
when  pain  comes  to  awaken  us  to  a  true  sense  of  how  much  we  love  — 
when  we  suffer  for  one  another's  dear  sake  —  the  consciousness  of  attach- 
ment swells  our  hearts  :  we  are  recalled  from  the  forgetfulness  engendered 
by  custom  ;  and  the  awakening  and  renewal  of  the  sense  of  affection  brings 
with  it  a  joy,  that  sweetens  to  its  dregs  the  bitterest  cup." 

"Encourage  this  philosophy,  dear  Ethel,"  replied  Villiers;  "you  vill 
need  it :  but  it  shames  me  to  think  that  I  am  your  teacher  in  this  mournful 
truth."  As  he  spoke,  his  whole  frame  was  agitated  by  tenderness  and 
grief.  Ethel  could  see,  by  the  dull  fire-light,  a  tear  gather  on  his  eye* 
lashes :  it  fell  upon  her  hand.     She  threw  her  arms  round  him,  and  pressed 


iLOBORfc.  169 

Hm  to  her  heart  with  a  passionate  gash  ot  weeping,  occasioned  partly  by 
remorse  at  having  so  moved  him,  and  partly  by  her  heart's  overflowing  with 
the  dear  security  of  being  loved. 

They  had  but  a  little  recovered  from  this  scene,  when  the  waiter,  bring- 
ing in  lights,  announced  Miss  Derham.  Her  coming  had  been  full  of  dis- 
asters. After  many  threatening,  and  much  time  consumed  in  clumsy  re- 
pairs, her  hackney-coach  had  fairly  broken  down  :  she  had  walked  the  rest 
of  the  way ;  but  they  were  much  farther  from  town  than  she  expected , 
and  thus  she  accounted  for  her  delay.  She  brought  no  news  ;  but  held  iii 
her  hand  the  letter  that  contained  the  means  of  freeing  them  from  their 
awkward  predicament. 

"  We  Will  not  stay  another  minute  in  this  cursed  place,''  said  Villiers : 
"  we  will  go  immediately  to  Salt  Bill,  where  I  intended  to  take  you  to- 
morrow. I  can  return  by  one  of  the  many  stages  which  pass  continually, 
to  keep  my  appointment  with  Gayland ;  and  be  back  with  you  again  by 
eight.  So  if  these  stupid  people  possess  a  post-chaise,  we  will  be  gone 
directly." 

Ethel  was  well  pleased  with  this  arrangement;  and  it  was  put  in  execu- 
tion immediately.  The  chaise  and  horses  were  easily  procured.  They  set 
Fanny  down  in  their  way  through  town.  Ethel  tried  to  repay  her  kindness 
by  heartfelt  thanks  ;  and  she,  in  her  placid  way,  showed  clearly  how  pleased 
she  was  to  serve  them. 

Leaving  her  in  Piccadilly,  not  far  from  her  own  door,  they  pursued  their 
way  to  Salt  Hill ;  and  it  seemed  as  if,  in  this  mere  change  of  place,  they 
had  escaped  from  a  kind  of  prison,  to  partake  again  in  the  immunities  and 
comforts  of  civilized  life.  Ethel  was  considerably  fatigued  when  she  ar- 
rived ;  and  her  husband  feared  that  he  had  tasked  her  strength  too  far.  The 
falling  and  fallen  snow  clogged  up  the  roads,  and  their  journey  had  been 
long.  She  slept,  inieed,  the  greater  part  of  the  way,  her  head  resting  on 
him;  and  her  languor  and  physical  suffering  were  soothed  by  emotions 
the  most  balmy,  and  by  the  gladdening  sense  of  confidence  and  security. 

They  arrived  at  SalfHill  late  in  the  evening.  The  hours  were  precious ; 
for  early  on  the  following  day,  Viiliers  was  obliged  to  return  to  town.'  On 
inquiry,  he  found  that  his  best  mode  was  to  go  by  a  night-coach  from  Bath, 
which  would  pass  at  seven  in  the  morning.  They  were  awake  half  the 
sight,  talking  of  their  hopes,  their  plans,  their  probable  deliverance  from 
their  besetting  annoyances.  By  this  time  Ethel  had  taught  her  own  phrase- 
ology, and  Villiers  had  learned  to  believe  that  whatever  must  happen  would 
fall  upon  buth,  and  that  no  separation  could  take  place  fraught  with  any 
good  to  either. 

When  Ethel  awoke,  late  in  the  morning,  Villiers  was  gone.  Her  watch 
told  her,  indeed,  that  it  was  near  ten  o'clock,  and  that  he  must  have  de- 
parted lon^  before.  She  felt  inclined  to  reproach  him  for  leaving  her, 
thouih  only  for  a  few  hours,  without  an  interchange  of  adieu.  In  truth, 
she  was  vexed  that  he  was  not  there  :  the  world  appeared  to  her  so  blank, 
without  his  voice  to  welcome  her  back  to  it  from  out  of  the  regions  of  sleep. 
While  this  slight  cloud  of  ill  humour  (may  it  be  called  ?)  was  passing  over 
ner  mind,  she  perceived  a  little  note,  left  by  her  husband,  lying  on  her  pil- 
low. Kissing  it  a  thousand  times,  she  read  its  contents,  as  if  they  pos- 
sessed talismanic  power.  They  breathed  the  most  passionate  tenderness  : 
they  besought  her,  as  she  loved  him,  to  take  care  of  herself,  and  to  keep  up 
her  spirits  until  his  return,  which  would  be  as  speedy  as  the  dove  flies  back 
to  its  nest,  where  its  sweet  mate  fondly  expects  him.  With  these  assur- 
ances and  blessings  to  cheer  her,  Ethel  arose.  The  sun  poured  its  wintry 
yet  cheering  beams  into  the  parlour,  and  the  sparkling,  snow-clad  earth 
glittered  beneath.  She  wrapped  herself  in  her  cloak,  and  walked  into  the 
garden  of  the  hotel.  Long  immured  in  London,  living  as  if  its  fogs  were 
33—7 


170  •  LODuRE, 

the  universal  vesture  of  all  thing?,  her  spirits  rose  to  exultation  and  delight,, 
as  she  looked  on  the  blue  sky  spread  cloudlessly  around.  As  the  pure 
breeze  freshened  her  cheek,  a  kind  of  transport  seized  her  ;  her  spirit  took 
wines;  she  feft-as  if  she  could  float  on  the  bosom  of  the  air  — as  if  there 
was  a  sympathy  in  nature,  whose  child  and  nursling  she  was,  to  welcome 
her  back  to  her  haunts,  and  to  reward  her  bounteously  for  coming.  The 
trees,  all  leafless  and  snow-bedecked,  were  friends  and  intimates:  she 
kissed  then*  rough  barks,  and  then  laughed  at  her  own  folly  at  being  so 
rapt.  The  snow-drop,  as  it  peeped  from  the  ground,  was  a  thing  of  won* 
der  and  mystery  ;  and  the  shapes  of  frost,  beautiful  forms  to  be  worshipped. 
All  sorrow,  all  care,  passed  away,  and  left  her  reared  as  clear  arid  bright 
as  the  unclouded  heavens  that  bent  orer  her, 


CHAPTER  XLBL 

*:  Herein 

Shall  irfy  capstvity  fc«  marfe-  my  happiness-: 
Since  what  I  loae  in  freedom,  1  regain 
With  interest-. 

HeAUMONT  &y&  Fletcher. 

The  glow  of  enthusiasm  and  gladness,  thus  kindled  in  her  sou?,  faded 
s'owly  as  the  sun  descended  ;  and  human  tenderness  returned  in  full  tide 
upun  her.  She  longed  for  Edward  to  speak  to  ;  when  would  he  come 
back?  She  walked  a  little  way  on  the  London  road  ;  she  returned  :  still 
her  patience  was  not  exhausted.  The  sun's  orb  grew  red  and  dusky  as  i? 
approached  the  horizon  :  she  returned  to  the  house.  It  was  yet  early  t 
Edward  codd  not  be  expected  yet:  he  had  promised  to  come  as  soon  as 
possible ;  but  he  had  prepared  her  for  the  likelihood  of  his  arrival  only  by 
the  mail  at  night.  It  was  long  since  she  had  written  to  Saville,  Cooped1 
up  in  town,  saddened  by  her  separation  from  her  husband,  or  enjoying  the 
brief  hours  of  reunion  she  had  felt  disinclined  to  write.  Her  enlivened 
spirits  now  prompted  her  to  pouT  out  some  of  their  overflowings  to  him. 
She  did  not  allude  to  any  of  the  circumstances  of  their  situation,  for  Ed- 
ward had  forbidden  that  topic  :  still  she  had  much  to  say  ;  for  her  heart  waff 
full  of  benevolence  to  all  mankind  ;  besides  her  attachment  to  her  husband,, 
the  prospect  of  becoming  a  mother  within  a  few  months,  opened  another 
source  of  tenderness ;  there  seemed  to  be  a  superabundance  of  happiness1 
within  her,  a  portion  of  which  she  desired  to  impart  to  those  she  loved. 

Daylight  had  long  vanished,  and  Villiers  did  not  return.  She  felt  un- 
easy r  —  of  course  he  would  come  fey  the  mail ;  yet  if  he  should  no*S 
—  what  could  prevent  him  ?  Conjectures  would  force  themselves  on  her, 
unreasonable,  she  told  herself;  yet  her  doubts  were  painful,  and  she  lis- 
tened attentively  each  time  that  the  sound  of  wheels  grew,  andasain  faded, 
trpon  ber  ear.  If  the  vehicle  stopped,  she  was  in  a  state  of  excitation  thaf 
approached  alarm.  She  knew  not  what  she  feared  •  yet  her  disquiet  in- 
creased into  anxiety.  "  Shall  1  ever  see  him  again  V  were  words  that  her 
lips  did  not  utter,  and  yet  which  lingered  in  her  heart,  although  unaccom- 
panied by  any  precise  idea  to  her  understanding. 

She  had  given  a  thousand!  messages  to  the  servants  j  — and  at  last  the 
mail  arrived.  She  heard  a  step  —  it  was  the  waiter  :  —  "The  gentleman 
is  not  come,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  I  knew  it,"  she  thought ;  —  "  yet  why  ? 
why  V  At  one  time  she  resolved  to  set  off  for  town  ;  yet  whither  to  go  — 
where  to  find  him  ?  An  idea  struck  her,  that  he  had  missed  the  mail ;  but 
as  he  would  not  leave  her  a  prey  to  uncertainty,  he  would  come  by  som* 


LODORE.  171 

•       • 

other  conveyance.  She  got  a  little  comfort  from  this  notion,  and  resumed 
her  occupation  of  wailing;  through  the  vagueness  of  her  expectations  ren- 
dered her  a  thousand  times  mare  restless  than  before.  And  all  was  vain. 
The  mail  had  arrived  at  eleven  o'clock  — at  twelve  she  retired  to  her  room. 
She  read  again  and  again  his  note  :  his  injunction,  that  she  should  take 
care  of  herself,  induced  her  to  go  to  bed  at  a  little  after  one ;  but  sleep  was 
stdl  far  from  her.  Till  she  could  no  longer  expect  —  till  it  became  certain 
that  it  must  be  morning  before  he  could  come,  she  did  not  close  her  eyes. 
As  her  last  hope  quitted  her,  she  wept  bitterly.  Where  was  the  joyousness 
of  the  morning  ?  —  the  exuberant  delight  with  which  her  veins  had  tingled, 
wh  ca  had  painted  life  as  a  blessing  ?  She  hid  her  face  in  her  pillow,  and 
gave  herself  up  to  tears,  till  sleep  at  last  stole  over  her  senses. 

Early  in  the  mo  ning  her  door  opened  and  her  curtain  was  drawn  aside. 
She  awoke  immediately,  and  saw  Fanny  Derham  standing  at  her  bed-side. 

"EJward  !   where  is  he?"   she  exclaimed,  starting  up. 

"  Well,  quite  well,"  replied  Fanny:  "  do  not  alarm  yourself,  dear  Mrs, 
Villiers,  —  he  has  been  arrested." 

'  I  must  go  to  him  immediately.  Leave  me  for  a  little  while,  dear  Fanny, 
— 'I  will  dress  and  come  to  you;  do  you  order  the  chaise  meanwhile.  I 
can  hear  everything  as  we  are  going  to  town." 

Ethel  trembled  violently  —  her  speech  was  rapid  but  inarticulate  ;  the  pale- 
ness that  overspread  her  face,  blanching  even  her  marble  brow,  and  the 
sudden  contraction  of  her  features,  alarmed  Fanny.  The  words  she  had 
used  in  co  n.municating  her  intelligence  were  cabalistic  to  Ethel,  and  her 
fears  were  the  mare  intolerable  because  mysterious  and  undefined ;  the 
blood  tackled  cold  in  her  veins,  and  a  chilly  moisture  stood  on  her  forehead. 
She  exerted  herselfviolent.lv  to  conquer  this  weakness,  but  it  shackled  her 
powers,  as  bands  of  rope  would  her  limbs,  and  after  a  few  moments  she 
sank  back  on  her  p'dlow  almost  bereft  of  life.  Fanny  sprang  to  the  bell, 
thm  sprinkled  her  with  water;  some  salts  were  procured  from  the  land- 
lady, and  gradually  the  colour  revisited  her  cheeks,  and  her  frame  resumed 
it^  functions  —an  hysteric  fit,  the  first  she  had  ever  had,  left  her  at  last  ex- 
hausted but  ma-e  comoosed.  She  herself  became  frightened,  lest  illness 
shouli  keep  her  fro  n  Villiers  ;  she  exerted  herself  to  become  tranquil,  and 
lav  fo™  some  time  without  speaking  or  moving.  A  little  refreshment  con- 
tributed to  restore  her,  and  she  turned  to  Fanny  with  a  faint  sweet  smile. 
"  You  see,"  said  she,  "  what  a  weak,  foolish  thing  I  am  ;  but  I  am  well 
now,  quite  rallied  —  there  must  be  no  more  delay." 

Her  cheerful  voice  and  lively  manner  gave  her  friend  confidence.  Fanny 
was  one  who  believed  much  in  the  mastery  of  mind,  and  felt  sure  that  no- 
thing would  be  so  prejudicial  to  Mrs.  Villiers  as  contradiction,  and  obsta- 
cles put  in  the  way  of  her  attaining  the  object  of  her  wishes.  In  spite 
therefore  of  the  good  people  about,  who  insisted  that  the  most  disastrous 
consequences  would  ensue,  she  ordered  the  horses  and  prepared  for  their 
immediate  journey  to  town.  Ethel  repaid  her  cares  with  smiles,  while  she 
restrained  her  curiosity,  laid  a3  it  were  a  check  on  her  too  impatient  move- 
ments, and  forced  a  calm  of  manner  which  gave  her  friend  courage  to 
proceed. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  on  their  way  that  the  object  of  their  journey 
was  mentioned  Fannv  then  spoke  of  the  arrest,  as  a  trifling  circumstance 
—  mentioned  bail,  and  twenty  things,  which  Ethel  only  comprehended  to  be 
mvste -ions  metho  Is  of  setting  him  free  ;  and  then  also  she  asked  the  history 
of  what  had  happened.  The  tale  was  soon  told.  The  moment  Mr.  Vil- 
liers hal  entered  Piccadilly  he  had  caused  a  coach  to  be  called,  but  on  pass- 
ing to  it  from  the  stage,  two  men  entered  it  with  him,  whose  errand  was 
too  easily  explained.  He  had  driven  first  to  his  solicitor's,  hoping  to  put 
every  thing  in  train  for  his  instant  liberation.    The  day  was  consumed  in 


172  LODORE. 

these  fruitless  endeavours — he  did  not  give  up  hope  till  past  ten  at  night, 
when  he  sent  to  Fanny,  asking  her  to  go  down  to  Mrs.  Villiers  as  early  aa 
possible  in  the  morning,  and  to  bring  her  up  to  town.  His  wish  was,  he 
said,  that  Ethel  should  take  up  her  abode  at  Mrs.  Derham's  till  this  affair 
could  be  arranged,  and  they  were  enabled  to  leave  London.  His  note  wag 
hurried ;  he  promised  that  another,  more  explicit,  should  await  his  wife  on 
her  arrival. 

"  Y"ou  will  tell  the  driver,"  said  Ethel,  when  this  story  was  finished,  "to 
drive  to  Edward's  prison.  I  would  not  stay  away  five  minutes  from  him  in 
his  present  situation  to  purchase  the  universe." 

Any  one  but  Miss  Derham  might  have  resisted  Ethel's  wish  —  have  ar- 
gued with  her,  and  irritated  her  by  the  display  of  obstacles  and  inconvenien- 
ces. It  was  not  Fanny's  method  ever  to  oppose  the  desires  of  others. 
They  knew  best,  she  affirmed,  their  own  sensations,  and  what  was  most 
fitting  for  them.  What  is  best  for  me,  habit,  education,  and  a  different 
texture  of  character,  may  render  the  worst  for  th  m.  In  the  present  in- 
stance, also,  she  saw  that  Ethel's  feelings  were  almost  too  high  wrought  for 
her  strength  —  that  opposition,  by  making  a  farther  call  on  her  powers, 
might  upset  them  wholly.  She  had  besides,  the  deepest  respect  for  her 
attachment  to  her  husband,  and  was  willing  to  reward  it  by  bringing  her 
to  him  without  delay.  Having  thus  fortunately  fallen  into  reasonable 
hands,  guided  by  one  who  could  understand  her  character,  and  not  torture 
her  by  forcing  notions  the  opposite  of  those  on  which  she  felt  herself  com- 
pelled to  act,  Ethel  became  tranquil,  and  saw  the  mere  panic  of  inexperi- 
ence in  her  previous  excessive  alarm. 

They  now  approached  London.  Fanny  called  the  post-boy  to  the  win- 
dow of  the  chaise,  and  gave  him  directions,  at  which  he  a  little  stared,  but 
said  nothing.  She  gave  things  their  own  names,  and  never  dreamed  of 
saving  appearances,  as  it  is  called.  What  ought  to  be  done,  that  she  dared 
do  in  the  face  of  the  whole  world,  and  therefore  to  make  a  mystery  of  their 
destination  never  once  occurred  to  her.  They  drove  through  the  long  inter- 
minable suburbs  —  through  Piccadilly  and  the  Strand.  Ethel's  cheeks 
flushed  with  the  excitement,  and  something  like  apprehension  made  her 
heart  flutter.  She  had  endeavoured  to  form  an  ima^e  in  her  own  mind  of 
whither  they  were  going  —  it  was  vague  ar<d  therefore  frightful  —  but  Ed- 
wa-d  was  there,  and  she  also  would  share  the  horrors  of  his  prison-house. 

They  passed  through  Temple  Bar,  and  going  down  an  obscure  street  or 
two,  stopped  at  a  dingy  door-way.  "  This  is  not  right,"  said  Ethel,  almost 
gasping  for  breath,  "  this  is  not  a  prison." 

"  Something  very  like  it,  as  you  will  find  too  soon,"  said  her  friend. 
Still  Ethel's  imagination  was  relieved  by  the  absence  of  the  massy  walls, 
the  portentous  gates,  the  gloomy  immensity  of  an  absolute  prison.  The 
door  of  the  house  being  opened,  Ethel  stepped  out  from  the  chaise  and 
asked  for  Mr.  Villiers.  The  man  whom  she  addressed  hesitated,  but  Ethel 
had  learned  one  only  worldly  lesson,  which  was,  whenever  she  needed  the 
services  of  people  of  the  lower  orders,  to  disseminate  money  plentifully. 
Her  purse  was  in  her  hand,  and  she  gave  a  sovereign  lo  the  man,  who  then 
at  once  showed  them  up-stairs  ;  which  she  ascended,  though  every  limb 
nearly  refused  to  perform  its  office  as  she  approached  the  spot  where  again 
she  was  to  find  — to  see  him,  whose  image  lived  eternally  in  her  heart,  and 
whom  it  was  the  sole  joy  of  her  life  to  wait  on,  to  be  sheltered  by,  to  live 
near. 

The  door  was  opened.  In  the  dingy,  dusty  room,  beside  the  fire,  which 
looked  as  if  it  could  not  bum,  and  was  never  meant  to  warm  even  the  black 
neglected  grate,  Villiers  sat,  reading.  His  first  emotion  was  shame  when 
he  saw  Ethel  enter.  There  was  no  accord  between  her  spotless  loveliness 
and  his  squalid  prison- room.     Any  one  who  has  seen  a  sunbsam  suddenly 


LODORE.  17S 

enter  and  light  up  a  scene  of  housewifely  neglect,  and  vulgar  discomfort, 
and  felt  how  obtrusive  it  rendered  all  that  might  be  half-forgotten  in  the 
shade,  can  picture  how  the  simple  elegance  of  Ethel  displayed  yet  more 
distinctly  to  her  husband  the  worse  than  beggarly  soene  in  which  she  found 
him.  His  cheeks  flushed,  and  almost  he  would  have  turned  away.  He 
would  have  reproached,  but  a  tenderness  and  an  elevation  of  feeling  ani- 
m  ited  her  expressive  countenance,  w  tiich  turned  the  current  of  his  thoughts. 
Whether  it  were  their  fate  to  suffer  the  extremes  of  fortune  in  the  savage 
wilderness,  or  in  the  more  appalling  privations  of  civdized  life  —  love,  and 
the  poetry  of  love  accompanied  her,  and  gilded  her,  and  irradiated  the  com- 
monest forms  of  penury.  She  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes  then  glanced  to 
the  barred  windows.  As  Fanny  and  their  conductor  left  them,  she  heard 
the  key  turn  in  the  lock  with  an  impertinent  intrusive  loudness.  She  felt 
pained  for  him,  but  for  herself  it  was  as  if  the  world  and  all  its  cares  were 
lockei  out,  and  as  if  in  this  near  association  with  him,  she  reaped  the 
row ird  of  all  her  previous  anxiety.  There  was  no  repining  in  her  thoughts, 
no  dejection  in  her  manner ;  Villiers  could  read  in  her  open  countenance, 
as  plainly  as  through  the  clearest  crystal,  the  sentiments  that  were  passing 
in  her  mind  —  it.  was  something  more  satisfied  than  resignation,  more  con- 
tented than  fortitude.  It  was  a  knowledge  that  whatever  evil  might  attend 
her  lot,  the  good  so  far  outweighed  it,  that,  for  his  sake  only,  could  she 
advert  to  any  feeling  of  distress.  It  was  a  consciousness  of  being  in  her 
place,  and  of  fulfilling  her  duty,  accompanied  by  a  sort  of  rapture  in 
rem°mbering  how  thrice  dear  and  hallowed  that  duty  was.  Angels  could 
not  feel  as  she  did,  for  they  cannot  sacrifice  to  those  they  love  ;  yet  there 
wi<  in  her  that  absence  of  all  self-emanating  pain,  which  is  the  character- 
istic of  what  we  are  told  of  the  anielic  essences. 

As  when  at  night  autumnal  winds  are  howling,  and  vast  masses  of 
winded  clouds  are  driven  with  indescribable  speed  across  the  sky  —  we 
note  the  islands  of  dark  ether,  built  round  by  the  white  fleecy  shapes  ;  and 
as  we  mark  th°  stars  which  gem  their  unfathomable  depth,  silence  and 
sublime  t'-anquiliity  appear  to  have  found  a  home  in  that  deep  vault,  and  we 
love  to  dwell  on  the  peace  and  beauty  that  live  there,  while  the  clouds  still 
ru-h  on,  and  the  face  of  the  lower  heaven  is  more  mutable  than  water. 
Thus  fhe  mind  of  Ethel,  surrounded  by  the  world's  worst  forms  of  adversity, 
showed  clear  and  serene,  entirely  possessed  by  the  repose  of  love.  It  was 
impossible  but  that,  in  spite  of  shame  and  regret,  Villiers  should  not  parti- 
cipate in  these  feelings.  He  gave  himself  up  to  the  softening  influence: 
he  knew  not  how  to  repine  on  his  own  account ;  Ethel's  affection  demanded 
to  stand  in  place  of  prosperity,  and  he  could  not  refuse  to  admit  so  dear  a 
claim. 

The  door  had  closed  on  them,  and  every  outlet  to  liberty,  or  the  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  was  barred  up.  Edward  drew  Ethel  towards  him  and  kissed 
her  fondly.  Their  eyes  met,  and  the  speechless  tenderness  that  oeamed* 
from  hers  reached  his  heart  and  soothed  every  ruffled  feeling.  Sitting  to- 
creth^r,  and  interchanging  a  few  words  of  comfort  and  hope,  mingled  with 
kind  looks  and  affectionate  caresses,  they  neither  of  them  remembered  in- 
dignity nor  privation.  The  tedious  mechanism  of  civilized  life,  and  the 
odious  interference  of  their  fellow-creatures,  were  forgotten,  and  they  were 
happy. 


7* 


174  LonoRE. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Veggo  pur  troppo 
Che  favola  e  la  vita. 
E  la  favola  mia  non  e  compita. 

Petkakca. 

The  darker  months  of  winter  had  passed  away,  and  the  chilly,  blighting 
English  spring  began.  Towards  the  end  of  March  Lady  Lodore  came  to 
town.  She  had  long  ago,  in  her  days  of  wealth,  fitted  up  a  house  in  Park 
Lane,  so  she  returned  to  it,  as  to  a  home  —  if  home  it  might  be  called  — 
where  no  one  welcomed  her  —  where  none  sat  beside  her  at  the  domestic 
hearth. 

For  the  first  time  she  felt  keenly  this  circumstance.  During  her  mother's 
lifetime  she  had  had  her  constantly  for  a  companion,  and  afterwards,  as 
events  pressed  upon  her,  and  while  the  anguish  she  felt  upon  Horatio  Sa- 
ville's  marriage  was  still  fresh,  she  had  not  reverted  to  her  lonely  position 
as  the  source  of  pain. 

The  haughty,  the  firm,  the  self-exalting  soul  of  Cornelia  had  borne  up 
long.  She  had  often  felt,  that  she  walked  on  the  borders  of  a  precipice,  and 
thatV  once  she  admitted  sentiments  of  regret,  she  should  plunge  without 
retrieve  into  a  gulf,  dark,  portentous,  inextricable.  She  had  often  repeated 
to  herself  that  fate  should  not  vanquish  her,  and  that  in  spite  of  despair  she 
would  be  happy  :  it  is  true  that  the  misery  occasioned  by  Saville's  marriage 
was  a  .canker  at  her  heart,  for  which  there  was  no  cure,  but  she  had 
recourse  to  dissipation  that  she  might  endeavour  to  forget  it.  A  sad  and 
ineffectual  remedy.  She  was  surrounded  by  admirers,  whom  she  disdained, 
and  by  friends,  to  whom  she  would  have  died  rather  than  betray  the  naked 
misery  of  her  soul.     She  had  never  planned  nor  thought  of  marriage.     The- 

report  concerning  the  Earl  of  D was  one  of  those  which  the  world 

always  makes  current,  when  two  persons  of  opposite  sexes  are,  I  y  any 
chance,  thrown  much  together.  His  sister  was  Lady  Lodore's  friend, 
and  she  had  chaperoned  her,  and  been  of  assistance  to  her,  during  the  court- 
ship of  the  gentleman  who  was  at  present  her  husband.  It  was  their  house 
that  Lady  Lodore  had  just  quitted  on  arriving  in  town.  The  new-born 
happiness  of  early  wedded  life  had  been  a  scene  to  call  her  back  to  thoughts 
which  were  the  sources  of  the  bitterest  anguish.  She  abhorred  herself  that 
she  could  envy,  that  she  could  desire  to  exchange  places  with,  any  created 
bein?.  She  abridged  her  visit,  and  fancied  that  she  should  regain  peace  in 
the  independence  of  her  own  home.  But  the  enjoyment  of  liberty  was  cold 
in  her  heart,  and  loneliness  added  a  freezing  chilliness  to  her  feeling. 

The  mind  of  Cornelia  was  much  above  the  world  she  lived  in,  though  she 
had  sacrificed  all  to  it;  and,  so  to  speak,  much  above  herself.  Take  pride 
from  her,  and  there  was  understanding,  magnanimity,  and  great  kindliness 
of  disposition :  but  pride  had  been  the  wall  of  China  to  shut  up  all  her  bet- 
ter qualities,  and  to  keep  them  from  communicating  with  the  world  beyond  ; 
—  pride,  which  grew  strong  by  resistance,  and  towered  above  every  aggres- 
Bor .  — pride,  which  crumbled  away,  when  time  and  change  were  its  sole 
assailants,  till  her  inner  being  was  left  unprotected  and  bare. 

She  found  herself  alone  in  the  world.  She  felt  that  her  life  was  aimless, 
unprofitable,  blank.  She  was  humiliated  and  saddened  by  her  relative  po- 
sition in  the  world.  She  did  not  think  rr  her  daughter  as  a  resource  ;  she 
Was  in  the  hands  of  her  enemies,  >»nd  no  hope  lay  there.  She  entertained 
the  belief  that  Mrs.  Villiers  wa '  "     ;.It '  >oth  in  character  and  u  nderstanding ; 


LODORE.  175 

*nd  that  to  make  any  attempt  to  interest  herself  in  her,  would  end  in  dis- 
appointment, if  not  disgust.  Imagining,  as  we  are  all  apt  to  do,  how  we 
should  act  in  another  person's  place,  she  had  formed  a  notion  of  wha/t  she 
would  have  done,  had  she  been  Eth  jl ;  and  as  nothing  was  done,  she  almost 
despised,  and  quite  pitied  her.  No?  there  was  no  help.  She  was  alone; 
—  none  loved,  none  cared  for  her  ;  and  the  flower  of  the  field,  which  a  child 
plucks  and  wears  for  an  hour,  and  then  casts  aside,  was  of  more  worth 
than  she. 

Every  amusement  grew  tedious — all  society  vacant  and  dull.  When 
she  came  back  from  dinners  or  assemblies,  to  her  luxurious  but  empty 
abode,  the  darkest  thoughts,  engendered  by  spleen,  hung  over  its  threshold^ 
and  welcomed  her  return.  At  such  times,  she  would  dismiss  her  attend- 
ant, and  remain  half  the  night  by  her  fireside,  encouraging  sickly  reveries, 
struggling  with  the  fate  that  bound  her,  yet  unable  in  any  way  to  make  an 
effort  for  freedom. 

"Time"  —  thus  would  frer  thoughts  fashion  themselves  —  "yes,  time 
rolls  on,  and  what  does  it  bring  ?  I  live  in  a  desert ;  its  barren  sands  feed 
my  hour-glass,  and  they  come  out  fruitless  as  they  went  in.  Months 
change  their  names  - —  years  their  ciphers  ;  my  brow  is  sadly  trenched  ;  the 
bloom  of  youth  is  faded  ;  my  mind  gathers  wrinkles.  What  will  become 
of  me  ? 

"  Hopes  of  my  youth,  where  are  ye  ?  —  my  aspirations,  my  pride,  my 
belief  that  I  could  grasp  and  possess  all  things?  Alas!  there  is  nothing 
of  all  this1.  My  soul  lies  in  the  dust;  and  I  look  up  to  know  that  I  have 
been  playing  with  shadows,  and  that  1  am  fallen  for  evert  What  do  I  see 
around  me?  The  tide  of  life  is  ebbing  fasti  I  had  fancied  that  pearls  and 
gold  would  have  been  left  by  the  retiring  waves ;  and  I  find  only  barren, 
ionelv  sands!  No  voiee  reaches  me  from  across  the  waters  —  no  one 
stands  beside  me  on  the  shore!  Would  —  oh  would  I  could  lay  my  head 
©n  the  spray-sprinkled  beaeh,  and  sleep  for  ever ! 

"This  is  madness!  — these  incoherent  images  that  throng  my  brain  are 
the  ravings  of  insanitv  !  — yet  what  greater  madness,  than  to  know  that 
love,  affection,  the  charities  of  life,  the  hopes  of  existence,  are  empty  words 
for  me.  Am  I  indeed  to  have  done  with  these?  What  is  it  that  still 
moves  up  and  down  in  my  soul,  making  me  feel  as  if  something  might  yet 
fee  accomplished  ?  Is  it  that  the  ardour  of  youth  is  not  yet  tamed  ?  Alas ! 
my  youth  has  departed  for  ever.  Yet  wherefore  these  sighs,  which  wrap 
an  eternity  of  wretchedness  in  their  evanescent  breath?  —  why  these  tears, 
that,  flowing  from  the  inmost  fountains  of  the  soul,  endeavour  to  orive  pas- 
sage to  the  flood  of  sorrow  that  deluges  and  overwhelms  it?  The  husband 
of  ray  youth  1  —  the  thought  of  him  passes  like  a  shadow  across  me!  Had 
he  borne  with  me  a  little  longer — had  I  submitted  to  his  control — how 
different  my  destiny  had  been!  But  I  will  not  think  of  that  —  I  do  not! 
A  mightier  storm  than  any  he  could  raise  has  swept  aeross  me  since,  and 
iaid  all  waste.  My  soul  has  been  set  upon  a  hope,  which  has  vanished, 
and  desolation  has  come  in  its  room.  Could  God,  in  his  anger,  bestow  a 
bitterer  cu-se  on  a  condemned  spirit,  than  that  wh;ch  weighs  on  me,  when 
I  reflect,  that  through  my  own  fault  I  lost  him,  whom  but  to  see  was  para- 
dise ?  The  thought  haunts  me  like  a  crime  ;  ,yet  when  is  it  absent  from 
me  ?  —  it  s!eeps  with  me,  rises  with  me  —  it  is  by  me  now,  and  I  would 
willingly  die  only  to  dismiss  it  for  ever. 

"  Miserable  Cornelia !  Thou  hast  been  courted,  lauded,  waited  on, 
loved  !  —  it  is  all  over !  I  am  alone  1  My  poor,  poor  mother !  —  my  much 
reviled,  my  dearest  mother  1  — by  you,  at  least,  I  was  valued  !  Ah  !  why 
are  you  gone,  leaving  your  wretched  child  alone  ? 

"  Oh  that  I  could  take  wings  and  rise  from  out  of  the  abyss  into  which  I 
am  fallen «    Can  I  not,  myself  being  miserable,  take  pleasure  in  the  pleasure 


176  LO0ORE. 

of  others  ;  and  by  force  of  strong  sympathy  forget  my  selfish  woes?  With 
whom  can  I  sympathize  ?  None  desire  my  care,  and  all  would  repay  my 
©fficiousness  with  ingratitude,  perhaps  with  scorn.  Once  I^could  assist  the 
poor ;  now  I  am  poor  myself:  my  limited  means  scarce  suffice  to  keep  me 
in  that  station  in  society  from  which  did  I  once  descend  I  were  indeed 
trampled  upon  and  destroyed  for  ever.  Tears  rush  from  my  eyes  —  my 
heart  sinks  within  me,  as  I  look  forward.  Again  the  same  cares,  the  same 
coil,  the  same  bitter  result.  Hopes  held  out  only  to  be  crushed  ;  affections 
excited  only  to  be  scattered  to  the  winds.  I  Warned  myself  for  struggling 
too  much  with  fate,  for  rowing  against  wind  and  tide,  for  resolving  to  control 
the  events  that  form  existence  :  now  I  yield  — I  have  long  yielded  —  1  have 
let  myself  drift,  as  I  hoped,  into  a  quiet  creek,  where  indifference  and  peace 
ruled  the  hour  ;  and  lo  I  it  is  a  whirlpool,,  to  swallow  all  1  had  left  of  enjoy- 
ment upon  earth  P 

It  was  not  until  she  had  exhausted  herself  b^  these  gloomy  and  restless 
reflections  that  she  laid  her  head  upon  her  pillow,  and  tried  to  sleep. 
Morning  usually  dawned  before  she  closed  her  eyes  ;  and  it  was  nearly 
noon  before  she  rose,  weary  and  unrefreshed.  It  was  with  a  struggle  that 
she  commenced  a  new  day  —  a  day  that  was  to  be  cheered  by  no  event  nor 
feeling  capable  of  animating  her  to  any  sense  of  joy.  She  had  never 
occupied  herself  by  intellectual  exertion  :  her  employments  had  been  the 
cultivation  of  what  are  called  accomplishments  merely  ;  and  when  now  she 
reverted  to  these,  it  was  with  bitterness.  She  remembered  the  interval 
when  she  had  been  inspirited  by  the  delightful  wish  to  please  Horatio. 
Now  none  cared  how  the  forlorn  Cornelia  passed  her  time ;  —  no  one  would 
hang  enraptured  on  her  voice,  or  hail  with  gladness  the  development  of 
some  new  talent.  "  It  is  the  same,'"  she  thought,  '•  how  I  get  rid  of  the 
heavy  hours,  so-  that  they  go-.  I  have  but  to  give  myself  up  to  the  sluggish 
stream  that  bears  me  on  to  old  age,  not  more  bereft  or  unregarded  than 
these  wretched  years." 

Thus  she  lingered  idly  through  the  morning ;  her  only  enjoyment  being 
when  she  secured  to  herself  a  solitary  drive,  and  reclining  back  in  her 
carriage,  felt  herself  safe  from  every  intrusion,  and  yet  enjoying  a  succession 
of  objects  that  but  little  varied  the  tenor  of  her  thoughts.  She  had  deserted 
the  park,  and  sought  unfrequented  drives  in  the  environs  of  London. 
Evening  at  last  came,  and  with  it  her  uninteresting  engagements,  which 
yet  she  found  better  than  entire  seclusion.  Forced  to  rouse  herself  to  adopt, 
as  a  mask,  the  smiling  appearance  which  had  been  natural  to  her  for  many 
years,  she  often  abhorred  every  one  around  her  ■  and  yet,  hating  herself 
more,  took  refuge  among  them,  from  her  own  society.  Her  chief  care  was 
to  repress  any  manifestation  of  her  despair,  which  too  readily  rose  to  her 
lips  or  in  her  eyes.  The  glorious  hues  of  sunset  —  the  subduing  sounds  of 
music —  even  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  girl,  resplendent  with  happiness  and 
youth,  moving  gracefully  in  dance  —  had  power  to  move  her  to  tears  :  her 
blood  seemed  to  curdle  and  grow  thick,  while  gloomy  shadows  mantled 
©ver  her  features.  Often  she  could  scarcely  forbear  expressing  the  bitter- 
ness of  her  feelings,  and  indulging  in  acrimonious  remarks  on  the  deceits 
of  life,  and  the  inanity  of  all  things.  It  seemed  to  her,  sometimes,  that  she 
must  die  if  she  did  not  give  vent  to  the  still  increasing  horror  with  which 
she  regarded  the  whole  system  of  the  world.  __ 

Nor  were  her  sufferings  always  thus  negative.  One  evening,  especially, 
a  young  travelled  gentleman  approached  her,  with  all  the  satisfaction  painted* 
on  his  countenance,  which  he  felt  at  having  secured  a  topic  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  the  fashionable  Lady  Lodore. 

"You  are  intimate  with  the  Misses  Saville,"  he  said  ;  "what  charming 
girls  they  are  \  I  have  just  left  them  at  Naples,  where  they  have  been 
spending  the  carnivaL    I  saw  them  almost  every  day,1b>d  capitally  we  ev^ 


LODORE.  177 

joyed  ourselves.  Their  Italian  sister-in-law  spirited  them  up  to  mask  and 
to  make  a  real  carnival  of  it.  A  most  lovely  woman  that.  Did  you  ever 
see  Mrs.  Saville,  Lady  Lodore  ?" 

"  Never,'1  replied  his  audiiress. 

"  Such  eyes  !  Gazelles,  and  stars,  and  suns,  and  the  whole  rancre  oi 
poetic  imagery,  might  be  sought  in  vain,  to  do  justice  to  her  large  dark 
eyes.  She  is  very  young  —  scarcely  twenty  :  and  to  see  her  With  her  child, 
is  positively  a  finer  tableau  than  any  Raphael  or  Correggio  in  the  world. 
She  has  a  little  girl,  not  a  year  old,  with  golden  hair,  and  eyes  as  black  as 
the  mother's  —  the  most  beautiful  little  thing,  and  so  intelligent.  Saville 
dotes  on  it :  no  wonder  —  he  is  not  himself  handsome,  you  know;  though 
the  lovely  Clorinda  would  stab  me  if  she  heard  me  say  so.  She  positively 
adores  him.     You  should  have  seen  them  together." 

Lady  Lodore  turned  on  him  one  of  her  sweetest  smiles,  and  in  her  bland- 
est tone,  said,  "  If  you  could  only  get  me  an  ice  from  that  servant,  who  I 
see  immoveable  behind  those.dear,  wonderful  dowagers,  you  would  so  oblige 
me." 

He  was  crone  in  a  minute  ;  and  on  his  return,  Lady  Lodore  was  so  deeply 
en  >rosse  1  in  being  persuaded  to  go  to  the  next  drawing-room,  by  the  youncr 

and  new-marri"d  Countess  of  G ,  that  she  could  only  reward  him  with 

another  heavenly  smile.  He  was  obliged  to  take  his  carnival  at  Naples 
to  some  other  listener. 

Cornelia  scarcely  closed  her  eyes  that  night.  The  thought  of  the  happy 
wife  and  lovely  child  of  Saville,  pierced  her  as  with  remorse.  She  had  en- 
tirely broken  off  her  acquaintance  with  his  family,  so  that  she  was  ignorant 
of  Cldrinda's  disposition,  and  readily  fancied  that  she  was  as  happy  as  she 
believed  that  the  wife  of  Horatio  Saville  must  be.  She  would  not  acknow- 
ledge that  she  was  wicked  enough  to  repine  at  her  felicity;  but  that  he 
should  be  rendered  happy  by  any  other  woman  than  herself —  that  any  other 
woman  should  have  become  the  sharer  of  his  dearest  affections,  stung  her 
to  the  core.  Yet  why  should  she  regret  ?  She  were  well  exchanged  for 
one  so  lovely  and  so  young.  At  the  age  of  thirty-four,  which  she  had  now 
reached,  Cornelia  persuaded  herself,  that  the  name  of  beauty  was  a  mockery 
as  applied  to  her  —  though  her  osvn  glass  might  have  told  h<jr  otherwise; 
for  time  had  dealt  lightly  with  her,  so  that  the  extreme  fa  cination  of  her 
manner,  and  the  animation  and  intelligence  of  her  countenance,  made  her 
compete  with  many  younger  beauties.  She  felt  that  she  was  deteriorated 
fro  n  the  angelic  being  she  had  seemed  when  she  first  appeared  as  Lodore's 
bride;  and  this  made  all  compliments  show  false  and  vain.  Now  she  fig- 
ured to  herself  the  dark  eyes  of  the  Neapolitan  ;  and  easily  believed  that 
the  memoy  of  her  would  contrast,  like  a  faded  picture,  with  the  rich  hues 
of  Clorinda  s  face  ;  while  her  sad  and  withered  feelings  were  in  yet  greater 
opposition  to  the  vivacity  she  had  heard  described  and  praised — to  the  tri- 
umphant and  glad  feelings  of  a  beloved  wife.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she 
must  weep  for  ever,  and  yet  that  tears  were  unavailing  to  diminish  in  any 
decree  the  sorrow  that  weighed  so  heavily  at  her  heart.  These  reflections 
sat  like  a  nightmare  on  her  pillow,  troubling  the  repose  she  in  vain  courted. 
She  arose  in  the  morning,  scarcely  conscious  that  she  had  slept  at  all  — 
languid  from  exhaustion  —  her  sufferings  blunted  by  their  very  excess. 


178  LODORE. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

Oh,  where  have  I  been  all  this  time  ?    How  friended 
That  I  should  lose  myself  thus  desp'rately, 
And  none  for  pity  show  me  how  I  wandered  ! 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

While  it  was  yet  too  early  for  visiters,  and  before  she  had  ordered  herseU 
to  be  denied  to  every  one,  as  she  intended  to  do,  she  was  surprised  by  a 
double  knock  at  the  door,  and  she  rang  hastily  to  prevent  any  one  being 
admitted.  The  servants,  with  contradictory  orders,  found  it  difficult  to 
evade  the  earnest  desire  of  the  visiter  to  see  their  lady ;  and  at  last  they 
brought  up  a  card,  on  which  was  written,  "  Miss  Derham  wishes  to  be 
permitted  to  see  Lady  Lodore  for  Mrs.  Villiers."  From  had  first  been 
written,  erased,  and  for  substituted.  Lady  Lodore  was  alarmed  ;  the  ideas 
of  danger  and  death  instantly  presenting  themselves,  she  desired  Miss 
Derham  to  be  shown  up.  She  met  her  with  a  face  of  anxiety,  and  with 
that  frankness  and  kindness  of  manner  which  was  the  irresistible  sceptre 
she  wielded  to  subdue  all  hearts.  Fanny  had  hitherto  disliked  Lady  Lo- 
dore. She  believed  her  to  be  cold,  worldly,  and  selfish  —  now,  in  a  mo- 
ment, she  was  convinced,  by  the  powerful  influence  of  manner,  that  she  was 
the  contrary  of  all  this ;  so  that  instead  of  the  chilling  address  she  meditated, 
she  was  impelled  to  throw  off  her  reserve,  and  to  tell  her  story  with  anima- 
tion and  detail.  She  spoke  of  what  Mrs.  Villiers  had  gone  through  pre- 
vious to  the  arrest  of  her  husband  —  and  how  constantly  she  had  kept  her 
resolve  of  remaining  with  him  —  though  her  situation  day  by  day  becoming 
more  critical,  demanded  attentions  and  luxuries  which  she  had  no  means 
of  attaining.  "  Yet,"  said  Fanny,  "  I  should  not  have  intruded  on  you 
even  now,  but  that  they  cannot  go  on  as  they  are  ;  their  resources  are 
utterly  exhausted,  — and  until  next  June  I  see  no  prospect  for  them." 

"  Why  does  t  ot  Mr.  Villiers  apply  to  his  father  ?  even  if  letters  were  of 
no  avail,  a  personal  appeal " 

"I  am  afraid  that  Colonel  Villiers  has  nothing  to  give,"  replied  Fanny, 
"  and  at  all  events,  Mr.  Villiers's  imprisonment " 

"Prison!"  cried  Lady  Lodore;  "you  do  not  mean — Ethel  cannot  be 
living  in  prison!" 

"  They  live  within  the  rules,  if  you  understand  that  term.  They  rent  a 
lodging  close  to  the  prison,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river." 

"This  must  indeed  be  altered,"  said  Lady  Lodore,  "this  is  far  too 
shocking  —  poor  Ethel,  she  must  come  here!  Dear  Miss  Derham,  will 
you  tell  her  how  much  I  desire  to  see  her,  and  entreat  her  to  make  my  house 
her  home." 

Fanny  shook  her  head.  "  She  will  not  leave  her  husband  —  1  should 
make  your  proposal  in  vain." 

Lady  Lodore  looked  incredulous.  After  a  moment's  thought  she  per- 
suaded herself  that  Ethel's  having  refused  to  return  to  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Derham,  or  having  negatived  some  other  proposed  kindness,  originated  this 
notion,  and  she  believed  that  she  had  only  to  make  her  invitation  in  the 
most  gracious  possible  way,  not  to  have  it  refused.  "  I  will  go  to  Ethel 
myself"  she  said  ;  "  I  will  myself  bring  her  here,  and  so  smooth  all  dif- 
ficulties." 

Fanny  did  not  object.  Under  her  new  favourable  opinion  of  Lady  Lo- 
dore, she  felt  that  all  would  be  well  if  the  mother  and  daughter  were  brought 


LODORE.  179 

together,  though  only  for  a  few  minutes.  She  wrote  down  Ethel's  address, 
and  took  her  leave,  while  at  the  same  moment  Lady  Lodore  ordered  her 
carriage,  and  assured  her  that  no  time  should  be  lost  in  removing  Mrs.  Vil- 
Uers  to  a  more  suitable  abode. 

Lady  Lodore  s  feelings  on  this  occasion  were  not  so  smiling  as  her  looks. 
She  was  grieved  for  her  daughter,  but  she  was  exceedingly  vexed  for  her- 
self. She  had  desired  some  interest,  some  employment  in  life,  but  she  re- 
coiled from  any  that  should  link  her  with  Ethel.  She  desired  occupation, 
and  not  slavery ;  but  to  bring  the  young  wife  to  her  own  house,  and  make 
it  a  home  for  her,  was  at  once  destructive  of  her  own  independence.  She 
looked  forward  with  repugnance  to  the  familiarity  that  must  thence  ensue 
between  her  and  Villiers.  Even  the  first  step  was  full  of  annoyance,  and 
she  was  displeased  that  Fanny  had  given  her  the  task  of  going  to  her 
daughter's  habitation,  and  forced  her  to  appear  personally  on  so  degrading 
a  scene  ;  there  was  however  no  help  —  she  had  undertaken  it,  and  it  must 
be  done. 

Every  advance  she  made  towards  the  wretched  part  of  the  town  where 
Ethel  lived,  added  to  her  ill  humour.  She  felt,  almost  personally  affronted 
by  the  necessity  she  was  under  of  first  coming  in  contact  with  her  daughter 
under  such  disastrous  circumstances.  Her  spleen  against  Lord  Lodore 
revived  :  sho  viewed  every  evil  that  had  ever  befallen  her,  as  rising  from 
his  machinations.  If  Eihel  had  been  intrusted  to  her  guardianship,  she 
certainly  had  never  become  the  wife  of  Edward  Villiers  —  nor  ever  have 
tasted  the  dregs  of  opprobrious  poverty. 

At  length,  her  carriage  drew  near  a  row  of  low,  shabby  houses  ;  and  as 
the  name  caught  her  eye  she  found  that  she  had  reached  her  destination. 
She  resolved  not  to  see  Villiers,  if  it  could  possibly  be  avoided;  and  then 
making  up  her  mind  to  perform  her  part  with  grace,  and  every  show  of 
kindness  she  made  an  effort  to  smooth  her  brow  and  recall  her  smiles. 
The  carriage  stopped  at  a  door  —  a  servant-maid  answered  to  the  knock. 
She  ordered  Mr.  Villiers  to  be  asked  for ;  he  was  not  at  home.  One 
objection  to  her  proceeding  was  removed  by  this  answer.  Mrs.  Villiers 
was  in  the  house,  and  she  alighted  and  desired  to  be  shown  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

As  flowers  beneath  May's  footsteps  waken  ; 
As  stars  from  night's  loose  hair  are  shaken  ; 
£=■  waves  arise  when  loud  winds  call, 
Thoughts  sprung  where'er  that  step  did  fall. 

Shelley. 

Never  before  had  the  elegant  and  fastidious  Lady  Lodore  entered  such 
an  abode,  or  ascended  such  stairs.  The  servant  had  told  her  to  enter  the 
room  at  the  head  of  the  first  flight,  so  she  made  her  way  by  herself,  and 
knocked  at  the  door.  The  voice  that  told  her  to  come  in  thrilled  through 
her,  she  knew  not  why,  and  she  became  disturbed  at  finding  that  her  self- 
possession  was  failing  her.  Slight  things  act  powerfully  on  the  subtle  mech- 
anism of  the  human  mind.  She  had  dressed  with  scrupulous  plainness, 
yet  her  silks  and  furs  were  strangely  contrasted  with  the  room  she  en- 
tered, and  she  felt  ashamed  of  all  the  adjuncts  of  wealth  and  luxury  that  at- 
tended her.  She  opened  the  door  with  an  effort :  Ethel  was  seated  near 
the  fire  at  work  —  no  place  or  circumstance  could  deteriorate  from  her  ap- 
pearance—  in  her  simple,  unadorned  morning-dress,  she  looked  as  elegant 
and  as  distinguished  as  she  had  done  whon  her  mother  had  last  seen  her  in 


ISO  LODORE. 

diamonds  and  plumes  in  the  presence  of  royalty.  There  was  a  charm 
about  both,  strikingly  in  contrast,  and  yet  equal  in  fascination  —  the  polish 
of  Lady  Lodore,  and  the  simplicity  of  Ethel  were  both  manifestations  of 
inward  grace  and  dignity  ;  and  as  they  now  met,  it  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  say  which  Had  the  advantage  of  the  other.  Ethel's  extreme  youth, 
by  adding  to  the  interest  with  which  she  must  be  regarded,  was  in  her  fa- 
vour. Yet  full  of  sensibility  and  loveliness  as  was  her  face,  she  had  never 
been^  nor  was  she  even  now,  as  strikingly  beautiful  as  her  mother. 

Lady  Lodore  could  not  restrain  the  tear  that  started  into  her  eye  on  be- 
holding her  daughter  situated  as  she  was.  Ethel's  feelings,  on  the  contrary, 
were  all  gladness.  She  had  no  pride  to  allay  her  gratitude  for  her  mother's 
kindness.  How  very  good  of  you  to  come  !"  she  said  ;  "  how  could  you  find 
out  where  we  were  V 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  asked  Lady  Lodore,  looking  round 
the  wretched  little  room. 

"  Only  a  few  weeks  —  I  assure  you  it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  seems.  I  should 
not  much  mind  it,  but  that  Edward  feels  it  so  deeply  on  my  account.'' 

"I  do  not  wonder,"  said  her  mother;  "he  must  be  cut  to  the  soul  — but 
thank  God  it  is  over  now.  You  shall  come  to  me  immediately,  my  house 
is  quite  large  enough  to  accommodate  you  —  I  am  come  to  fetch  you.?' 

"My  own  dearest  mother!"  —  the  words  scarcely  formed  themselves 
on  Ethel's  lips ;  she  half  feared  to  offend  the  lovely  woman  before  her  by 
showing  her  a  daughter's  affection. 

"  Yes,  call  me  mother,"  said  Lady  Lodore  ;  "  I  may,  at  last,  I  hope,  be 
allowed  to  prove  myself  one.  Come,  then,  dear  Ethel,  you  will  not  refuse  my 
request  —  you  will  come  with  me  ?" 

"  How  gladly  —  but  —  will  they  let  Edward  go  ?  I  thought  there  was  no 
hope  of  so  much  good  fortune." 

"  I  fear  indeed,"  replied  her  mother,  "  that  Mr.  Villiers  must  endure  the 
annoyance  of  remaining  here  a  little  longer ;  but  I  hope  his  affairs  will  soon 
be  arranged." 

Ethel  bent  her  large  eyes  inquiringly  on  her  mother,  as  if  not  understand- 
ing ;  and  then,  as  her  meaning  opened  on  her,  a  smile  diffused  itself  over 
her  countenance  as  she  said,  "Your  intentions  are  the  kindest  in  the  world 
—  I  am  grateful,  how  far  more  grateful  rhan  I  can  at  all  express,  for  your 
goodness.  That  you  have  had  the  kindness  to  come  to  this  odious  place  is 
more  than  I  could  ever  dare  expect." 

"  It.  is  not  worth  your  thanks,  although  I  think  I  deserve  your  acquiescence 
to  my  proposal.    You  will  come  home  with  me  ?" 

Ethel  shook  her  head,  smilingly.  "All  my  wishes  are  accomplished," 
she  said,  "  through  this  kind  visit.  I  would  not  have  you  for  the  world 
come  here  again  ;  but  the  wall  between  us  is  broken  down,  and  we  shall 
not  become  strangers  again." 

"  My  dearest  Ethel,"  said  Lady  Lodore,  seriously,  "  I  see  what  you 
mean.  I  wish  Mr.  Villiers  were  here  to  advocate  my  cause.  You  must 
come  with  me  —  he  will  be  much  more  at  ease  when  you  are  no  longer 
forced  to  share  his  annoyances.  This  is  in  every  way  an  unfit  place  for 
you,  especially  at  this  time." 

"  F  shall  appear  ungrateful,  I  fear,"  replied  Ethel,  "if  I  assure  you  how 
much  better  off  I  am  here  than  I  could  be  anywhere  else  in  the  world.  This 
place  appears  miserable  to  you  —  so  I  dare  say  it  is  ;  to  me  it  seems  to 

f)Ossess  every  requisite  for  happiness;  and  were  it  not  so,  I  would  rather 
ive  in  an  actual  dungeon  with  Edward,  than  in  the  most  splendid  mansion 
in  England,  away  from  him." 

Her  face  was  lighted  up  with  such  radiance  as  she  spoke — there  was  so 
much  fervour  in  her  voice  —  such  deep  affection  in  her  speaking  eyes  — 
such  an  earnest  demonstration  of  heartfelt  sincerity,  that  Lady  Lodore  was 


LODORE.  IS  J 

confounded  and  overcome.  Swift,  as  if  a  map  had  been  unrolled  before 
her,  the  picture  of  her  own  passed  life  was  retraced  in  her  mind  —  its  lone- 
less  and  unmeaning  pursuits  —  and  the  bitter  disappointments  that  had 
blasted  every  hope  of  seeing  better  days.  She  burst  into  tears.  Ethel  was 
shocked,  and  tried  to  soothe  her  by  caresses  and  assurances  of  gratitude 
and  affection.  "  And  yet  you  will  not  come  with  me  ?"  said  Lady  Lodore, 
making  an  effort  to  resume  her  self-command. 

"I  cannot.  It  is  impossible  for  me  voluntarily  to  separate  myself  from 
Edward  —  I  am  too  weak,  too  great  a  coward.1' 

"  And  is  there  no  hope  of  liberation  for  him?"  This  question  of  Lady 
Lodore  forced  them  back  to  matter-of-fact  topics,  and  she  became  composed. 
Ethel  related  how  ineffectual  every  endeavour  had  yet  been  to  arrange  his 
affairs,  how  large  his  debts,  how  inexorable  his  creditors,  how  neglectful  hi3 
attorney. 

"  And  his  father?"  inquired  her  mother. 

"  He  seems  to  me  to  be  kind-hearted,"  replied  Ethel,  "  and  to  feel  deeply 
his  son's  situation  ;  but  he  has  no  means  — he  himself  is  in  want." 

"  He  is  keeping  a  carriage  at  this  moment  in  Paris,"  said  Lady  Lodore, 
"  and  giving  parties  —  however,  I  allow  that  that  is  no  proof  of  his  having 
money.     Still  you  must  not  stay  here." 

"  Nor  shall  we  always,"  replied  Ethel ;  "  something  of  course  will  happen 
to  take  us  away,  though  as  yet  it  is  all  hopeless  enough." 

"  Aunt  Bessy,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry,  might  give  you  assistance. 
Have  you  asked  her? — has  she  refused?" 

"  Edward  has  exacted  a  promise  from  me  not  to  reveal  our  perplexities 
to  her  —  he  is  punctilious  about  money  obligations,  and  I  have  given  my 
word  not  to  hurt  his  delicacy  on  that  point." 

"  Then  that,  perhaps,  is  the  reason  why  you  refused  my  request  to  go 
home  with  me  ?"  said  Lady  Lodore,  reproachfully. 

•  ':  No,"  repliea  Ethel,  "  I  do  not  think  that  he  is  so  scrupulous  as  to  pre- 
vent a  mother  from  serving  her  child  ;  but  he  shall  answer  for  himself; 
T  expect  him  back  from  his  walk  every  minute." 

"  Then  forgive  me  if  I  run  away,"  said  Lady  Lodore  ;  "  I  am  not  fit  to 
see  him  now.  Better  times  will  come,  dearest  Ethel,  and  we  shall  meet 
again.  God  bless  you,  my  child,  as  so  much  virtue  and  patience  deserve 
to  be  blessed.     Remember  me  with  kindness." 

"  Do  not  forget  me,"  replied  Ethel,  "  or  rather,  do  not  think  of  me  and 
my  fortunes  with  too  much  disgust.     We  shall  meet  again,  I  hope?" 

Lady  Lodore  kissed  her,  and  hurried  away.  Scarcely  was  she  in  her 
carriage  when  she  saw  Villiers  advancing  :  his  prepossessing  appearance, 
ingenuous  countenance,  and  patrician  figure,  made  more  intelligible4o  her 
wo -Id-practised  eyes  the  fond  fidelity  of  his  wife.  She  drew  up  the  win- 
dow that  he- might  not  see  her,  as  she  gave  her  directions  for  "home,"  and 
then  retreating  to  the  corner  of  her  Carriage,  she  tried  to  compose  her 
thoughts,  and  to  reflect  calnlv  on  what  was  to  be  done. 

But  the  effort  Was  vain.  The  further  she  was  removed  from  the  strange 
scene  of  the  morning,  the  more  powerfully  did  it  act  on,  and  agitate  her 
mind.  Her  soul  was  in  tumults.  This  was  the  being  she  had  pitied, 
almost  despised  !  Her  eager  imagination  now  exalted  her  into  an  angel. 
There  was  son^thin^  heart-moving  in  the  gentle  patience  and  unrepining 
contentment  with  which  she  bore  her  hard  lot.  She  appeared  in  her  eyes 
to  be  one  of  those  rare  examples  sent  upon  earth  to  purify  human  nature, 
and  to  demonstrate  how  near  akin  to  perfection  we  can  become.  Latent 
maternal  pide  might  increase  her  admiration,  and  maternal  tenderness 
add  to  its  warmth.  Her  nature  had  acknowleged  its  affinity  to  her  child, 
and  she  felt  drawn  towards  her  with  inexpressible  yearnings.  A  vehement 
desire  to  serve  her  sprung  up  —  but  all  was  confused  and  tumultuous.  She 
33—8 


182  LODORE. 

pressed  her  hand  on  her  forehead,  as  if  so  to  restrain  the  strong  current  of 
thought     She  compressed  her  lips,  so  to  repress  her  tears. 

Arrived  at  home,  she  found  herself  in  prison  within  the  walls  of  her 
chamber.  She  abhorred  its  gilding  and  luxury  —  she  longed  for  Ethel's 
scant  abode  and  glorious  privations.  To  alleviate  her  restlessness,  she 
again  drove  out,  and  directed  her  course  through  the  Regent's  Park,  and 
along  the  new  road  to  Hampstead,  where  she  was  least  liable  to  meet  any 
one  she  knew.  It  was  one  of  the  first  fine  days  of  spring.  The  green 
meadows,  the  dark  boughs  swelling  and  bursting  into  bud,  the  fresh  enli- 
vening air,  the  holyday  of  nature's  birth  —  all  this  was  lost  on  her,  or  but 
added  to  her  agitation.  Still  her  thoughts  were  with  her  child  in  her  nar- 
row abode  ;  every  lovely  object  served  but  to  recall  her  image,  and  the 
wafting  of  the  soft  breeze  seemed  an  emanation  from  her.  It  was  dark 
before  she  came  back,  and  sent  a  hurried  note  of  excuse  to  the  house  where 
she  was  to  have  dined.  "  No  more,  oh  never  more,"  she  cried.  "  will  I  so 
waste  my  being,  but  learn  from  Ethel  to  be  happy,  and  to  love." 

Many  thoughts  and  many  schemes  thronged  her  brain.  Something  must 
be  done,  or  her  heart  would  burst.  Pride,  affection,  repentance,  all  occu- 
pied the  same  channel,  and  increased  the  flood  that  swept  away  every  idea 
but  one.  Her  very  love  for  Horatio,  true  and  engrossing  as  it  had  been, 
the  source  of  many  tears  and  endless  regrets,  appeared  as  slight  as  the  web 
of  gossamer,  compared  to  the  chain  that  bound  her  to  her  daughter.  She 
could  not  herself  understand,  nor  did  she  wish  to  know,  whence  and  why 
this  enthusiasm  had  risen  like  an  exhalation  in  her  soul,  covering  and  occu- 
pying its  entire  space.  She  only  knew  it  was  there,  interpenetrating,  para- 
mount. Ethel's  dark  eyes  and  silken  curls,  her  sweet  voice  and  heavenly 
smile,  formed  a  moving,  speaking  picture,  which  she  fe't  that  it  were  bliss 
to  contemplate  for  ever.  She  retired  at  last  to  bed,  but  not  to  rest ;  anH  as 
she  lay  with  open  eyes,  thinking  not  of  sleep  —  alive  in  every  pore — her 
brain  working  with  ten  thousand  thoughts,  one  at  last  grew  more  importu- 
nate than  the  rest,  and  demanded  all  her  attention.  Her  ideas  became 
more  consecutive,  though  not  le-s  rapid  and  imperious.  She  drew  forth  in 
prospect,  as  it  were,  a  map  of  what  was  to  be  done,  end  the  results.  Her 
mind  became  fixed,  and  sensations  of  ineffable  pleasure  accompanied  her 
reveries.  She  was  resolved  to  sacrifice  every  thing  to  her  daughter  —  to 
liberate  Viliiers,  and  to  establish  her  in  ease  and  comfort.  The  image  of 
self-sacrifice,  and  of  the  ruin  of  her  own  fortunes,  was  attended  with  a 
kind  of  rapture.  She  felt  as  if,  in  securing  Ethel's  happiness,  she  could 
never  feel  sorrow  more.  This  was  something  worth  living  for :  the  burden 
of  life  was  gone  —  its  darkness  dissipated  —  a  soft  light  invested  all  things, 
and  angels'  voices  invited  her  to  proceed.  While  indulging  in  these  rev- 
eries, she  sunk  into  a  balmy  sleep  —  such  a  one  she  had  not  enjoyed  for 
many  months  —  nay,  her  whole  past  life  had  never  afforded  her  so  sweet  a 
joy.  The  thoughts  of  love,  when  she  believed  that  she  should  be  united  to 
Saville,  were  not  so  blissful ;  for  self-approbation,  derived  from  a  con- 
sciousness of  virtue  and  well-doing,  hallowed  every  thought. 


- 


LODORE.  183 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

Like  gentle  rains  on  the  dry  plains, 
Making  that  ^reen  which  la.e  was  gray ; 

Or  like  the  sudden  moon,  that  stains 

Some  gloomy  chamber's  window  panes, 
With  a  broad  li^ht  like  day. 

Shelley. 

How  mysterious  a  thing  is  the  action  of  repentance  in  the  human  mind! 
We  will  not  dive  into  the  debasing  secrets  of  remorse  for  guilt.  Lady 
Lodore  could  accuse  herself  of  none.  Yet  when  she  looked  back,  a  new 
light  shone  on  the  tedious  maze  in  which  she  had  been  lost ;  a  light — and  she 
blessed  it  —  that  showed  her  a  pathway  out  of  tempest  and  confusion  into 
serenity  and  peace.  She  wondered  at  her  previous  blindness  ;  it  was  as  if 
she  had  closed  her  eyelids,  and  then  fancied  it  was  night.  No  fear  that  she 
should  return  to  darkness  ;  her  heart  felt  so  light,  her  spirit  so  clear  and 
animated,  that  she  could  only  wonder  how  it  was  she  had  missed  happiness 
so  long,  when  it  needed  only  that  she  should  stretch  out  her  hand  to 
take  it. 

Her  first  act  on  the  morrow  was  to  have  an  interview  with  her  son-in- 
law's  solicitor.  Nothing  could  be  more  hopeless  than  Mr.  Gayland's 
representation  of  his  client's  affairs.  The  various  deeds  of  settlement  and 
entail,  through  which  he  inherited  his  estate,  were  clogged  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  render  an  absolute  sale  of  his  reversionary  prospects  impossible,  so 
that  the  raising  of  money  on  them  could  only  be  effected  at  an  immense 
future  sacrifice.  Under  these  circumstances  Gayland  had  been  unwilling  to 
proceed,  and  appeared  lukewarm  and  dilatory,  while  he  was  impelled  by 
that  love  for  the  preservation  of  property,  which  often  finds  place  in  the  mind 
of  a  legal  adviser. 

Lady  Lodore  listened  attentively  to  his  statements.  She  asked  the  ex- 
tent of  Edward's  debts,  and  somewhat  started  at  the  sum  named  as  neces- 
sary to  clear  him.  She  then  told  Mr.  Gayland  that  their  ensuing  conver- 
sation must  continue  under  a  pledge  of  secrecy  on  his  part.  He  assented, 
and  she  proceeded  to  represent  her  intention  of  disposing  of  her  jointure  for 
the  purpose  of  extricatiug  Viiliers  from  his  embarrassments.  She  save 
directions  fov  its  sale,  and  instructions'  for  obtaining  the  necessary  papers 
to  effect  it.  Mr.  Gayland's  countenance  brightened  ;  yet  he  offered  a  few 
words  of  remonstrance  against  such  unexampled  generosity. 

"  The  sacrifice,"  said  Lady  Lodore,  "  is  not  so  great  as  you  imagine.  A 
variety  of  circumstances  tend  to  compensate  me  for  it.  I  do  not  depend 
upon  this  source  of  income  alone  ;  and  be  assured,  that  what  I  do,  I  con- 
sider, on  the  whole,  as  benefiting  me  even  more  than  Mr.  Viiliers." 

Mr.  Gayland  bowed  ;  and  Cornelia  returned  home  with  a  light  heart. 
For  months  she  had  not  felt  such  an  exhilaration  of  spirits.  A  warm  joy 
thrilled  through  her  frame,  and  involuntary  smiles  dimpled  her  cheeks. 
Dusky  and  dingy  as  was  the  day,  the  sunshine  of  hpr  soul  dissipated  its 
shadows,  and  spread  brightness  over  her  path.  She  could  scarcely  con- 
trol the  expression  of  her  delight;  and  when  she  sat  down  to  write  to 
Ethel,  it  was  several  minutes  before  she  was  able  to  collect  her  thoughts,  so 
as  to  remember  what  she  had  intended  to  say.  Two  notes  were  destroyed 
before  she  had  succeeded  in  imparting  that  sobreity  to  her  expressions, 
which  was  needful  to  veil  her  purpose,  which  she  had  resolved  to  lock  within 
her  own  breast  for  ever.  At  length  she  was  obliged  to  satisfy  herself  with 
a  few  vague  expressions.     This  was  her  letter  :  — 


134  LODORE. 

'  I  cannot  help  believing,  my  dearest  girl,  that  your  trials  are  coming  to 
a  conclusion.  I  have  seen  Mr.  Gayland  ;  and  it  appears  to  me  that  energy 
aid  activity  are  chiefly  wanting  for  the  arrangement  of  your  husband's 
affairs  :  I  think  I  have  in  some  degree  inspired  these.  He  has  promised  to 
write  to  Mr.  Villiers,  who,  I  trust,  will  find  satisfaction  in  his  views.  Do 
you,  my  dearest  Ethel,  keep  up  your  spirits,  and  take  care  of  your  piecious 
health.  We  shall  meet  again  in  better  days,  when  you  will  be  rewarded 
for  your  sufferings  and  goodness.  Believe  me,  I  love  as  much  as  I  admire 
you;  so,  in  spite  of  the  past,  think  of  me  with  indulgence  and  affection." 

Lady  Lodore  dressed  to  dine  out,  and  for  an  evening  assembly.  She 
looked  so  radiant  and  so  beautiful,  that  admiration  and  compliments  were 
^'lowered  upon  her.  How  vain  qnd  paltry  they  all  seemed;  and  yet  her 
feelings  were  wholly  changed  from  that  period,  when  she  desired  to  reject 
a  id  scoff  at  the  courtesy  of  her  fellow-creatures.  The  bitterness  of  spirit 
was  gone,  which  had  prompted  her  to  pour  out  gall  and  sarcasm,  and  had 
made  it  her  greatest  pleasure  to  revel  in  the  contempt  and  hate  that  filled 
her  bosom  towards  herself  and  others.  She  was  now  at  peace  with  the 
world,  and  disposed  to  view  its  follies  charitably.  Yet  how  immeasurably 
superior  she  felt  herself  to  all  those  around  her  !  not  through  vanity  or  su- 
percilious egotism,  but  from  the  natural  spring  of  inward  joy  and  self-appro- 
bation, which  a  consciousness  of  doing  well  opened  in  her  before  dried-up 
heart.  She  somewhat  contemned  her  friends,  and  wholly  pitied  them. 
But  she  could  not  dwell  on  any  disagreeable  sentiment.  Her  thoughts, 
while  she  reverted  to  the  circumstances  that  so  changed  their  tenor,  were 
stained  with  the  fairest  hues,  harmonized  by  the  most  delicious  music.  She 
had  risen  to  a  sphere  above,  beyond  the  ordinary  soarings  of  mortals  —  a 
world  without  a  cloud,  without  one  ungenial  breath.  She  wondered  at 
herself.  She  looked  back  with  mingled  horror  and  surprise  on  the  misera- 
ble state  of  despondence  to  which  she  had  been  reduced.  Where  were  now 
her  regrets?  —  where  her  ennui,  her  repinings,  her  despair  ?  "In  the  deep 
bosom  of  the  ocean  buried  !"  —  and  she  arose,  as  from  a  second  birth,  to 
new  hopes,  new  prospects,  new  feelings  ;  or  rather  to  another  state  of  be- 
ing, which  had  no  affinity  to  the  former.  For  poverty  was  n  w  her  pur- 
suit, obscurity  her  desire,  ruin  her  hope  ;  and  she  smiled  on-,  and  beckoned 
to  these,  as  if  life  possessed  no  greater  blessings. 

Her  impetuosity  and  pride  served  to  sustain  the  high  tone  of  her  soul. 
She  had  none  of  that  sloth  of  purpose,  or  weakness  of  feeling,  that  leads  to 
hesitation  and  regret.  To  resolve  with  her  had  been,  during  the  whole 
course  of  her  life,  to  do  ;  and  what  her  mind  was  set  upon  she  accomplished 
—  it  might  be  rashly,  but  still  with  that  independence  and  energy,  that 
gave  dignity  even  to  her  more  ambiguous  actions.  As  before,  when  she 
cast  off  Lodore,  she  had  never  admitted  a  doubt  that  she  was  justified  be- 
fore God  and  her  conscience  for  refusing  to  submit  to  the  most  insulting 
tyranny  ;  so  now,  believing  that  she  had  acted  ill  in  not  demanding  the 
guardianship  of  her  daughter,  and  resolving  to  atone  for  the  evils  which 
were  the  consequence  of  this  neglect  of  duty  on  her  part,  she  had  no  mis- 
givings as  to  the  future,  but  rushed  precipitately  onwards.  As  a  racer  at 
the  Olympic  games,  she  panted  to  arrive  at  the  goal,  though  it  were  only 
to  expire  at  the  moment  of  its  attainment. 

Meanwhile,  Ethel  had  been  enchanted  by  her  mother's  visit,  and  spoke 
of  it  to  Villiers  as  a  proof  of  the  real  goodness  of  her  heart,  insisting  that  she 
was  judged  harshly  and  falsely.  Villiers  smiled  incredulously.  "She 
gains  your  esteem  at  an  easy  rate,"  he  observed  ;  "  cultivate  it,  if  it  makes 
you  happier.  It  will  need  more  than  a  mere  act  of  ordinary  courtesy  — 
more  than  a  slight  invitation  to  her  house,  to  persuade  me  that  Lady  Lodore 


LODORE.  185 

is  not  —  what  she  is  —  a  worshipper  of  the  world,  a  frivolous,  unfeeling 
woman.     Mark  me  whether  she  comes  again." 

Her  letter  on  the  following  day,  strengthened  his  opinion.  "This  is 
even  insulting,"  he  said  .  ""ah  •  takes  care  to  inform  you  that  she  will  not 
look  again  on  your  poverty,  hut  will  wait  for  better  days  to  bring  you  toge- 
ther. The  kindness  of  such  an  intimation  is  quite  admirable.  She  has  in- 
spired Gayland  with  energy  and  activity  !  —  Oh,  then,  she  must  be  a  Medea, 
in  more  senses  than  the  more  obvious  one." 

Ethel  looked  reproachfully.  She  saw  that  Villiers  was  deeply  hurt  that 
Larly  Lodore  had  become  acquainted  with  their  distresses,  and  been  a  wit- 
ness of  the  nakedness  of  thu  land.  She  could  not  Inspire  him  with  the 
tenderness  that  warmed  her  heart  towards  her  mother,  and  the  conviction 
she  entertained,  in  spite  of  appearances,  (for  she  was  forced  to  confess  to 
herself  that  Lady  Lodore"s  letter  was  not  exactly  the  one  she  expected,) 
that  her  heart  was  generous  and  affectionate.  It  was  a  comfort  to  her  that 
Fanny  Derham  participated  in  her  opinions.  Fanny  was  quite  sure  that 
Lady  Lodo-e  would  prove  heiself  worthy  of  the  esteem  she  had  so  suddenly 
conceived  for  her  ;  and  Ethel  listened  delightedly  to  her  assertions — it  was 
so  soothing  to  think  well  of,  to  love  and  praise  her  mother. 

The  solicitor's  letter,  which  came,  as  Lady  Lodore  announced,  somewhat 
surprised  Villiers  ;  yet,  after  a  little  reflection,  he  gave  no  heed  to  its  con- 
tents. Tt  said,  that  uoon  farther  consideration  of  particular  points,  Gayland 
perceived  certain  facilities  ;  by  improving  upon  which,  he  hoped  soon  to 
make  a  favourable  arrangement,  and  to  extricate  Mr.  Villiers  from  his  in- 
volvements. Anv  thing  so  vague  demanded  explanation.  Edward  wrote 
earnestly,  requesting  one  ;  but  his  letter  remained  unanswered.  Perplexed 
and  annoyed,  he  obtained  permission  to  quit  his  bounds  for  a  few  hours, 
and  called  upon  the  man  of  law.  Gayland  was  so  busy,  that  he  could  not 
afford  him  more  than  five  minutes'  conversation.  He  said  that  he  had 
hopes  —  even  expectations  ;  that  a  little  time  would  show  more ;  and  he 
begged  his  client  to  be  patient.  Villiers  returned  in  despair.  The  only 
circumstance  that  at  all  served  to  inspire  him  with  any  hope,  wras,  that  mi  the 
day  succeeding  to  his  visit,  he  received  a  remittance  of  a  hundred  pounds 
from  Gayland,  who  begged  to  be  considered  as  his  banker  till  the  present 
negotiations  should  be  concluded. 

The-e  was  some  him'liatioo  in  the  knowledge  of  how  welcome  this  sup- 
ply had  become,  and  Ethel  used  her  gentle  influence  to  migiiate  the  pain 
of  such  reflections.  If  she  ever  drooped,  it  was  not  for  herself,  but  for  Vil- 
liers; and  she  carefully  hid  even  these  disinterested  repinings.  Her  own 
condition  did  not  inspire  her  with  any  fears,  and  the  anxiety  that  she  expe- 
rienced for  her  unborn  child  was  untinctured  by  bitterness  or  despair. 
She  f  >lt  assured  that  their  present  misfortunes  would  be  of  short  duration  ; 
and  instead  of  letting  her  thoughts  dw°ll  on  the  mortifications  or  shame 
that  marked  the  passing  hour,  she  loved  to  fill  her  mind  with  pleasing  sen- 
sxtions,  inspi-ed  bv  the  tenderness  of  her  husband,  the  kindness  of  poor 
Fannv,  and  the  reliance  she  had  in  the  reality  of  her  mother's  affection.  In 
vain,  she  said,  did  the  harsher  elements  of  life  try  to  disturb  the  serenity 
which  the  love  of  those  around  her  produced  in  her  soul.  Her  happiness 
was  treasu-ed  in  their  hearts,  and  did  not  emanate  from  the  furniture  of  a 
roon  nor  the  comfort  of  an  equipage.  Her  babe,  if  destined  to  open  its 
eyes  first  on  such  a  scene,  would  be  still  less  acted  upon  by  its  apparent 
cheerlessness.  Cradled  in  her  arms,  and  nourished  at  her  bosom,  what 
more  beni  m  fate  could  await  the  little  stranger  ?  •  What  was  there  in  their 
destinv  worthy  of  grief,  while  th°y  remained  true  to  each  other? 

With  such  arguments  she  tried  to  inspire  Villiers  with  a  portion  of  that 
fortitude  and  patience  which  was  a  natural  growth  in  herself.    They  had 
but  slender  effect  upon  him.     Their  different  educations   had  made  her 
8* 


186  L.ODORE. 

greatly  his  superior  in  these  virtues  ;  besides  that  she,  with  her  simpler  hab- 
its and  unprejudiced  mind,  was  less  shocked  by  the  concomitants  of  penury, 
than  he,  bred  m  high  notions  of  aristocratic  exclusiveness.  She  had  spent 
her  youth  among  settlers  in  a  new  country,  and  did  not  associate  the  idea 
of  disgrace  with  want.  Nakedness  and  gaunt  hunger  had  often  been  the 
invaders  of  her  forest  home,  scarcely  to  be  repelled  by  her  father's  fore- 
thought and  resources,  How  could  she  deem  these  shameful,  when  they 
had  often  assailed  the  most  worthy  and  industrious,  who  were  not  the  less 
regarded  or  esteemed  on  that  account  She  had  acquired  a  practical  philos- 
ophy, while  inhabiting  the  western  wilderness,  and  beholding  the  vast 
variety  of  life  that  it  presents,  which  stood  her  in  good  stead  under  her  Eu- 
ropean vicissitudes.  The  white  inhabitants  of  America  did  not  form  her 
only  school.  The  red  Indian  and  his  squaw  were  also  human  beings,  sub- 
ject to  the  same  necessities,  moved,  in  the  first  instance,  by  the  same  im- 
pulses as  herself.  All  that  bore  the  human  form  were  sanctified  to  her  by 
the  spirit  of  sympathy. ;  and  she  could  not,  as  Edward  did,  feel  herself 
wholly  outcast  and  under  ban,  while  kindness,  however  humble,  and  intel- 
ligence, however  lowly,  attended  upon  her. 

Villiers  could  not  yield  to  her  arguments,  nor  partake  her  wisdom ;  yet 
he  was  glad  that  she  possessed  any  source  of  consolation,  however  un- 
imaginable, by  himself.  He  buried  within  his  heart  the  haughty  sense  of 
wrong.  He  uttered  no  complaint,  though  his  whole  being  rebelled  against 
the  state  of  inaction  to  which  he  was  reduced.  It  maddened  him  to  feel 
that  he  could  not  stir  a  finger  to  help  himself,  even  while  he  fancied  that 
he  saw  his  young  wife  withering  before  his  eyes;  and  looked  foiward  to 
the  birth  of  his  child,  under  circumstances  that  rendered  even  the  neces- 
sary attendance  difficult,  if  not  impracticable.  The  heaviest  weight  of 
slavery  fell  upon  him,  for  it  was  he  that  was  imprisoned,  and  forbidden  to 
go  beyond  certain  limits  ;  and  though  Ethel  religiously  confined  herself 
within  yet  narrower  bounds  than  those  allotted  to  him,  he  only  saw,  in 
this  delicacy,  another  source  of  evil.  Nor  were  these  real  tangible  ills 
those  which  inflicted  the  greatest  pain.  Had  these  misfortunes  visited 
him  in  the  American  wilderness,  or  in  any  part  of  the  world  where  the  ma- 
jesty of  nature  had  surrounded  them,  he  fancied  that  he  should  have  been 
less  alive  to  their  sinister  influence.  But  here  shame  was  conjoined  with 
the  perpetual  spectacle  of  the  least  reputable  class  of  the  civilized  com- 
munity. Their  walks  were  haunted  by  men  who  bore  the  stamp  of  prof- 
ligacy and  crime  ;  and  the  very  shelter  of  their  dwelling  was  shared  by 
the  mean  and  vulgar.  His  aristocratic  pride  was  sorely  wounded  at  every 
turn;  —  not  for  himself  so  much,  for  he  was  manly  enough  to  feel  "  that 
a  man's  a  man  for  all  that,"  —  but  for  Ethel's  sake,  whom  he  would  have 
fondly  placed  apart  from  all  that  is  deformed  and  unseemly,  guarded 
even  from  the  rougher  airs  of  heaven,  and  surrounded  by  every  thing  most 
luxurious  and  beautiful  in  the  world. 

There  was  no  help.  Now  and  then  he  got  a  letter  from  his  father,  full 
of  unmeaning  apologies  and  unmanly  complaints.  The  more  irretrieva- 
ble his  poverty  became,  the  firmer  grew  his  resolve  not  to  burden  with  his 
wants  any  more  distant  relation.  He  would  readily  give  up  every  pros- 
pect of  future  wealth  to  purchase  ease  and  comfort  for  Ethel ;  but  he  could 
not  bend  to  any  unworthy  act ;  and  the  harder  he  felt  pressed  upon  and 
injured  by  fortune,  the  more  jealously  he  maintained  his  independence  of 
feeling:  on  that  he  would  lean  to  the  last,  though  it  proved  a  sword  to 
pierce  him. 

He  looked  forward  with  despair,  yet  he  tried  to  conceal  his  worst  thoughts, 
which  would  still  be  brooding  upon  absolute  want  and  starvation.  He 
answered  Ethel's  cheering  tones  in  accents  of  like  cheer,  and  met  the 
melting  tenderness  of  her  gaze  with  eyes  that  spoke  of  love  only.    He 


JLODORE.  187 

endeavoured  to  persuade  her  that  he  did  not  wholly  shut  his  heart  from  the 
hopes  she  was  continually  presenting  to  hirn.  Hopes,  the  very  names  of 
which  were  mockery.  For  they  must  necessarily  be  imbodied  in  words 
and  ideas  —  and  his  father  or  uncle  were  mentioned  —  the  one  had  proved 
a  curse,  the  other  a  temptation.  He  could  trace  his  reverses  as  much  to 
the  habits  of  expense,  and  the  false  views  of  his  resources,  acquired  under 
Lord  Maristow's  tutelage,  as  to  the  prodigality  and  neglect  of  his  parent. 
Even  the  name  of  Horatio  Saville  produced  bitterness.  Why  was  he  not 
here  ?  He  would  not  intrude  his  wants  upon  him  in  his  Italian  home  ;  but 
had  he  been  in  England,  they  had  been  saved  from  these  worst  blows  of 
fate. 

The  only  luxury  of  Villiers  was  to  steal  some  few  hours  of  solitude,  when 
he  could  indulge  in  his  miserable  reflections  without  restraint.  The  loveli- 
ness and  love  of  Ethel  were  then  before  his  imagination  to  drive  him  to 
despair.  To  suffer  alone  would  have  been  nothing ;  but  to  see  this  child 
of  beauty  and  tenderness,  this  fairest  nursling  of  nature  and  liberty,  droop 
and  fade  in  their  narrow,  poverty-stricken  home,  bred  thoughts  akin  to 
mad  less.  During  each  livelong  night  he  was  kept  waking  by  the  anguish 
of  inch  reflections.  Darker  thoughts  sometimes  intruded  themselves.  He 
fancied  that,  if  he  were  dead,  Ethel  would  be  happier.  Her  mother,  his 
relations,  each  and  all  would  come  forward  to  gift  -her  with  opulence  and 
ease.  The  idea  of  self-destruction  thus  became  soothing  ;  and  he  pondered 
with  a  kind  of  savage  pleasure  on  the  means  by  which  he  should  end  the 
coil  of  misery  that  had  wound  round  him. 

At  such  times  the  knowledge  of  Ethel's  devoted  affection  checked  him. 
Or  sometimes,  as  he  gazed  on  her  as  she  lay  sleeping  at  his  side,  he  felt 
that,  every  sorrow  was  less  than  that  which  separation  must  produce ;  and 
that  to  share  adversity  with  her  was  greater  happiness  than  the  enjoyment 
of  prosperity  apart  from  her.  Once,  when  brought  back  from  the  gloomiest 
desperation  by  such  a  return  of  softer  emotions,  the  words  of  Francesca 
da  Rimini  rushed  upon  his  mind  and  completed  the  change.  He  recollected 
how  she  and  her  lover  were  consoled  by  their  eternal  companionship  in  the 
midst  of  the  infernal  whirlwind.  "  And  do  I  love  you  less,  my  angel  ?"  he 
thought  •  "  are  you  not  more  dear  to  me  than  woman  ever  was  to  man,  and 
would  [  divide  myself  from  you  because  we  suffer  ?  Perish  the  thought ! 
Whether  for  good  or  ill,  let  our  existences  still  continue  one,  and  from  the 
sanctity  and  sympathy  of  our  union  a  sweet  will  be  extracted  sufficient  to 
destroy  the  bitterness  of  this  hour.  We  prefer  remaining  together,  mine 
own  sweet  love,  for  ever  together,  though  it  were  for  an  eternity  of  pain. 
And  these  woes  are  finite.  Your  pure  and  exalted  nature  will  be  rewarded 
for  its  sufferings,  and  T,  for  your  sake,  shall  be  saved.  I  could  not  live 
without  you  in  this  world  ;  and  yet  with  insane  purpose  1  would  rush  into 
the  unknown,  away  from  you,  leaving  you  to  seek  comfort  and  support 
from  other  hands  than  mine.  I  was  base  and  cowardly  to  entertain  the 
thought  but  for  one  moment —  a  traitor  to  my  own  affection,  and  the  stabber 
of  your  peace.  Ah,  dearest  Ethel,  when  in  a  few  hours  your  eyes  will  open 
on  the  li^ht,  and  seek  me  as  the  object  most  beloved  by  them,  were  I  away, 
unable  To  return  their  fondness,  incapable  of  the  blessing  of  beholding  them, 
what  h' 11  could  be  contrived  to  punish  more  severely  my  dereliction  of  duty  ?" 

With  this  last  thought  another  train  of  feeling  was  introduced,  and  he 
strung  himself  to  more  manly  endurance.  He  saw  that  his  post  was  as- 
signed him  in  this  world,  and  that  he  ou^ht  to  fulfil  its  duties  with  courage 
and  patience.  Hope  came  hand  in  hand  with  such  ideas  —  and  the  dawn 
of  content  on  his  soul  was  a  proof  that  the  exercise  of  virtue  brought  with 
it  its  own  reward.  He  could  not  always  keep  his  feelings  in  the  same  tone, 
but  he  no  longer  sawT  greatness  of  mind  in  the  indulgence  of  sorrow. 

He  remembered  that  throughout  the  various  stations  into  which  society 


183 


LODORE. 


has  divided  human  beings,  adversity  and  pain  belong  to  each,  and  that 
death  and  treachery  are  more  frightful  evils  than  all  the  hardships  of  life. 
He  thought  of  his  unborn  child,  and  of  his  duties  towards  it  —  not  only  in 
a  worldly  point  of  view,  but  as  its  teacher  and  guide  in  morals  and  religion. 
The  beauty  and  use  of  the  ties  of  blood,  to  which  his  peculiar  situation 
had  hitherto  blinded  him,  became  intelligible  at  once  to  his  heart  and  his 
understanding  ;  and  while  he  felt  how  ill  his  father  hnd  fulfilled  the  paternal 
duties,  Lc  resolved  that  his  <  wn  offspring  should  never  have  cause  to  re- 
proa-  h  him  for  similar  misconduct.  Before,  he  had  rep'r.ed  because  the  evils 
of  ms  lot  seemed  g.atuitous  suffering ;  but  now  he  felt,  as  Ethel  had  often 
expressed  it,  that  the  sting  of  humiliation  is  taken  from  misfortune,  when 
we  nerve  ourselves  to  endure  it  for  another's  sake. 


4 

CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

The  world  had  just  begun  to  steal 
Each  hope  that  led  me  lightly  on; 
I  felt  not  as  I  used  to  feel, 
And  life  grew  dark,  and  love  was  gone. 

Thomas  Moore. 

While  the  young  pair  were  thus  struggling  with  the  severe  visitation  oi 
adversity,  Lady  Lodore  was  earnestly  engaged  in  her  endeavours  to  extri- 
cate them  from  their  difficulties.  The  ardour  of  her  zeal  had  made  her 
take  the  first  steps  in  this  undertaking,  with  a  resolution  that  would  not 
look  behind,  and  a  courage  not  to  be  dismayed  by  the  dreary  prospect  which 
the  future  afforded.  The  scheme  which  she  had  planned,  and  was  now 
proceeding  to  execute,  was  unbounded  in  generosity  and  self-sacrifice.  It 
was  not  in  her  nature  to  stop  short  at  half-measures,  nor  to  pause  when 
once  she  had  fixed  her  purpose.  If  she  ever  trembled  on  looking  forward 
to  the  utter  ruin  she  was  about  to  encounter,  her  second  emotion  was  to 
despise  herself  for  such  pusillanimity,  and  to  be  roused  to  renewed  energy. 
She  intended  to  devote  as  much  as  was  necessary  of  the  money  arising 
from  the  sale  of  her  jointure,  as  fixed  by  her  marriage  settlement,  for  the 
liquidation  of  her  son-in-law's  debts.  The  remaining  six  hundred  a-year, 
bequeathed  to  her  in  Lord  Lodore's  will,  under  circumstances  of  cruel  in- 
sult, she  resolved  to  give  up  to  her  daughter's  use,  for  her  future  subsist- 
ence. She  hoped  to  save  enough  from  the  sum  produced  by  the  dispo- 
sal of  her  jointure,  to  procure  the  necessaries  of  life  for  a  few  years,  and 
she  did  not  look  beyond.  She  would  quit  London  for  ever.  She  must 
leave  her  house,  which  she  had  bought  during  her  days  of  prosperity,  and 
which  she  had  felt  so  much  pride  and  delight  in  adorning  with  every  luxury 
and  comfort :  to  crown  her  good  work,  she  intended  to  give  it  up  to  Ethel. 
And  then  with  her  scant  means  she  would  take  refuge  in  the  solitude  where 
Lodore  found  her,  and  spend  the  residue  of  her  days  among  tl  e  uncouth 
and  lonely  mountains  of  Wales,  in  poverty  and  seclusion.  It  was  from  no 
agreeable  association  with  her  early  youth,  that  she  selected  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Rhyaider  Gowy  for  her  future  residence  ;  nor  from  a  desire  of  renew- 
ing the  recollections  of  the  period  spent  there,  nor  of  revisiting  the  scenes, 
where  she  had  stepped  beyond  infancy  into  the  paths  of  life.  Her  choice 
simply  arose  from  being  obliged  to  think  of  economy  in  its  strictest  sense, 
and  she  remembered  this  place  as  the  cheapest  in  the  world,  and  the  most 
retired.  Besides,  that  in  fixing  on  a  part  of  the  country  which  she  had  be- 
fore inhabited,  and  yet  where  she  would  be  utterly  unknown,  the  idea  of  her 
future  home  assumed  distinctness,  and  a  greater  sense  of  practicability  was 


I.ODORE.  1S9 

imparted  to  her  schemes,  than  could  have  heen  the  case,  had  she  been  un- 
able to  form  any  image  in  her  mind  of  the  exact  spot  whither  she  was  about 
to  betake  herself. 

The  first  conception  of  this  plan  had  dawned  on  her  soul,  as  the  design 
of  some  sublime  poem  or  magnificent  work  of  art  may  present  itself  to  tne 
contemplation  of  the  poet  and  man  of  genius.  She  dwelt  on  it  in  its  entire 
result,  with  a  glow  of  joy  ;  she  entered  into  its  details  with  childish  eager- 
ness. She  pictured  to  herself  the  satisfaction  of  Villiers  and  Ethel  at  find 
ing  themselves  suddenly,  as  by  magic,  restored  to  freedom  and  the  pleas- 
ures of  life.  She  figured  their  gladness  in  exchanging  their  miserable 
lolnnz  for  the  luxury  of  her  elegant  dwelling; ;  their  pleasure  in  forgetting 
the  long  train  of  previous'  misfortunes,  or  remembering  them  only  to  en- 
hance their  prosperity,  when  pain  and  fear,  disgrace  and  shame,  should  be 
exeh  inged  for  security  and  comfort.  She  repeated  to  herself,  "  I  do  all  this 
—  I,  the  despised  Cornelia!  I,  who  was  deemed  unworthy  to  have  the 
guardianship  of  my  own  child.  I,  who  was  sentenced  to  desertion  and 
misery,  because  I  was  too  wo  Idly  and  selfish  to  be  worthy  of  Horace  Sa- 
ville  !  How  little  through  life  has  my  genuine  character  been  known,  or 
its  qualities  appreciated  !  Nor  will  it  be  better  understood  now.  My 
sacrifices  will  continue  a  mystery,  and  even  the  benefits  1  am  forced  to 
acknowledge  to  flow  from  me,  1  shall  diminish  in  their  eyes,  by  bestowing 
them  with  appxren*  indifference.  Will  they  ever  deign  to  discover  the 
reality  under  the  deceitful  appearances  which  it  will  be  my  pride  to  exhibit  ? 
1  care  not;  conscience  will  approve  me — and  when  I  am  alone  and  un- 
thought  of,  the  knowledge  that  Ethel  is  happy  through  my  means  will  make 
poverty  a  blessing." 

It  was  not  pride  alone  that  induced  Lady  Lodore  to  resolve  on  conceal- 
ing the  extent  of  her  benefits.  All  that  she  could  give  was  not  much,  if 
co  npared  with  the  fortunes  of  the  wealthy  —  but  it  was  a  competence, 
which  would  enable  her  daughter  and  her  husband  to  expect  better  days 
with  patience  ;  but  if  they  knew  how  greatly  she  was  a  sufFerer  Tor  their 
good,  they  would  insist  at  least  upon  her  sharing  their  income  —  and  what 
wis  scanty  in  its  entireness,  would  be  wholly  insufficient  when  divided. 
Villiers  also  might  dispute  or  reject  her  kindness,  and  deeply  injured  as  she 
believed  herself  to  have  been  by  him  — injured  by  his  disesteem,  and  the 
influence  he  h  id  used  over  Saville,  in  a  manner  so  baneful  to  her  happi- 
ness, she  felt  irrepressible  exultation  at  the  idea  of  heaping  obligation  on 
him,  —  and  knowing  herself  to  be  deserving  of  his  deepest  gratitude.  All 
these  sentiments  might  be  deemed  fantastic,  or  at  least  extravagant.  Yet 
her  conclusions  were  reasonable,  for  it  was  perfectly  true  that  Villiers 
wo  lid  rather  have  returned  to  his  prison,  than  have  purchased  freedom  at 
the  vast  pace  she  was  about  to  pav  for  it.  No,  her  design  was  faultless  in 
its  completeness,  meager  and  profitless  if  she  stopped  short  of  its  full  exe- 
cution. Nor  would  she  see  Ethel  again  in  the  interim  —  partly  fearful  of 
not  preserving  her  secret  inviolate  —  partly  because  she  felt  so  slrongly 
drawn  towards  her,  that  she  dreaded  finding  herself  the  slave  of  an  affec- 
tion—  a  passion,  which,  under  hercircumstanc.es,  she  could  not  indulge. 
Without  counsellor,  without  one  friendly  voice  to  encourage,  she  advanced 
in  the  path  she  had  marked  out,  and  drew  from  her  own  heart  only  the 
courage  to  proceed. 

It  required,  however,  all  her  force  of  character  to  carry  her  forward.  A 
thousand  difficulties  wore  born  at  every  minute,  and  the  demands  made  were 
increased  to  such  an  extent  as  to  make  it  possible  that  they  would  go  beyond 
her  m^ans  of  satisfying  them.  She  had  not  the  assistance  of  one  friend 
acquainted  with  the  real  state  of  things  to  direct  her  —  her  only  adviser  was 
a  xrwxi  of  law,  who  did  what  he  was  directed  —  not  indeed  with  passive 
obedience,  but  whose  deviations  from  mere  acquiescence,  arose  from  techni- 


190  LODORE. 

cal  objections  and  legal  difficulties,  at  once  unintelligible  and  tormenting, 
B331I33  t'iBss  mora  pdpiblo  anoyancss,  other  clouds  arose,  natural  t-o 
wavering  humanity,  which  would  sometimes  shadow  Cornelia's  soul,  so  that 
she  drooped  from  the  height  she  had  reached,  with  a  timid  and  dejected  spirit 
At  first  she  looked  forward  to  ruin,  exile,  and  privation,  as  to  possessions 
which  she  coveted  — but  the  further  she  proceeded,  the  more  she  lost  view 
of  the  light  and  gladness  which  had  attended  on  the  dawn  of  her  new  visions. 
Futurity  became  enveloped  in  an  appalling  obscurity,  while  the  present  waa 
sad  and  cheerless.  The  ties  which  she  had  formed  in  the  world,  which  she 
had  fancied  it  would  be  so  easy  to  cut  asunder,  assumed  strength  ;  and  she 
felt  that,  she  must  endure  many  pangs  in  the  act  of  renouncing  them  for 
ever.  The  scenes  and  persons  which,  a  little  while  ago,  she  had  regarded 
as  uninteresting  and  frivolous  —  she  was  now  forced  to  acknowledge  to  be 
too  inextricably  interwoven  with  her  habits  and  pursuits,  to  be  all  at  once 
quitted  without  severe  pain.  When  the  future  was  spoken  of  by  others 
with  joyous  anticipation,  her  heart  sunk  within  her,  to  think  how  her  here- 
after was  to  become  disjointed  and  castaway  from  all  that  preceded  it.  The 
mere  pleasures  of  society  grew  into  delights,  when  thought  of  as  about  to 
become  unattainable;  and  slight  partialities  were  regarded  as  if  founded 
upon  strong  friendship  and  tender  affection.  She  was  not  aware  till  now 
how  habit  and  association  will  endear  the  otherwise  indifferent,  and  how 
the  human  heart,  prone  to  love,  will  intvvine  its  ever- sprouting  tendrils 
around  any  object,  not.  absolutely  repulsive,  which  is  brought  into  near  con- 
tact with  it.  When  any  of  her  favourites  addressed  her  in  cordial  tones, 
when  she  met  the  glance  of  one  she  esteemed,  directed  towards  her  with  an 
expression  of  kindliness  and  sympathy,  her  eyes  grew  dim,  and  a  thrill  of 
anguish  passed  through  her  frame.  All  that  she  had  a  little  while  ago  scorned 
as  false  and  empty,  she  now  looked  upon  as  the  pleasant  reality  of  life,  which 
she  was  to  exchange  for  she  scarcely  knew  what  —  a  living  grave,  a  friend- 
less desert  —  for  silence  and  despair. 

It  is  a  hard  trial  at  all  times  to  be^in  the  world  anew,  even  when  we  ex- 
change a  m°diorre  station  for  oie  which  our  imagination  paints  as  full  of 
enjoyment  and  distinction.  How  much  more  difficult  it  was  for  Lady  Lo- 
dore  to  despoil  herself  of  every  good,  and  voluntarily  to  encounter  poverty 
in  its  most  unadorned  guise.  As  time  advanced,  she  became  fully  aware  of 
what  she  would  have  to  go  through,  and  her  heroism  was  the  greater,  be- 
cause, though  the  charm  had  vanished,  and  no  hope  of  compensation  or  re- 
ward was  held  out,  she  did  not  shrink  from  accomplishing  her  task.  She 
could  not  exactly  say,  like  old  Adam  in  the  play, 

At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek, 
But  at  fourscore  it  is  too  late  a  week. 

i^et  at  her  age  it  was  perhaps  more  difficult  to  cast  offthe  goods  of  this  world, 
than  at  a  more  advanced  one.  Midway  in  life,  we  are  not  weaned  from 
affections  and  pleasures — we  still  hope.  We  even  demand  more  of  solid  ad- 
vantages, because  the  romantic  ideas  of  youth  have  disappeared,  and  yet 
we  are  not  content  to  give  up  the  game.  We  no  longer  set  our  hearts  on 
ephemeral  joys,  but  require  to  be  enabled  to  put  our  trust,  in  the  continuance 
of  any  good  offered  to  our  choice.  This  desire  of  durability  in  our  pleasures 
is  equally  felt  by  the  young ;  .but  ardour  of  feeling  and  ductility  of  imagi- 
nation is  then  at  hand  to  bestow  a  quality,  so  dear  and  so  unattainable  to 
fragile  humanity,  on  any  object  we  desire  should  be  so  gifted.  But  at  a 
riper  a^e  we  pause,  and  seek  that  our  reason  may  be  convinced,  and  fre- 
quently prefer  a  state  of  prosperity  less  ecstatic  and  elevated,  because  its 
verv  sobriety  satisfies  us  that  it  will  not  slip  suddenly  from  our  grasp. 
The  comforts  of  life,  the  esteem  of  friends  —  these  are  things  which  we 


LCtfTOKE.  %      191 

thetf  regard  with  the  greatest  satisfaction  ;  and  other  feelings,  less  reason- 
able, yet  not.  less  keenly  felt,  may  enter  into  the  circle  of  sensations,  which 
•forms  the  existence  of  a  beautiful  woman.  It  is  less  easy  for  one  who  has 
been  all  her  life  admired  and  waited  Upon,  to  give  wp  the  few  last  years  of 
such  power,  than  it  would  have  been  to  cast  away  the  gift  in  earlier  life. 
She  has  learned  to  doubt  her  influence,  to  know  its  value,  and  to  prize  it. 
In  girlhood  it  may  be  matter  of  mere  triumph  —  in  after  years  it  will  be 
looked  on  as  an  inestimable  quality  by  which  she  may  more  easily  and 
firmly  secure  the  benevolence  of  her  fellow-creatures.  All  this  depends 
upon  the  polish  of  the  skin  and  the  fire  of  the  eye,  which  a  few  years  wilJ 
deface  and  quench—  and  while  the  opprobrious  epithet  of  old  woman  ap- 
proaches within  view,  she  is  glad  to  feel  secure  from  its  being  applied  to 
her,  by  perceiving  the  signs  of  the  influence  of  her  surviving  attractions 
marked  in  the  countenances  of  her  admirers.  Lady  Lodore  never  felt  so 
km  ly  inclined  towards  hers,  as  now  that  she  was  about  to  withdraw  from 
them.  Their  admiration,  for  its  own  sake,  she  might  contemn,  but  she 
valued  it  as  the  testimony  that  those  charms  were  still  hers,  which  once 
had  subdued  the  soul  of  him  she  loved;  and  this  was  no  disagreeable  assur- 
ance to  one  who  was  on  the  eve  of  becoming  a  grandmother. 

Her  sensibility,  awakened  by  the  considerations  forced  on  her  by  her  new 
circumstances,  caused  he  to  make  more  progress  in  the  knowledge  of  life, 
and  in  the  philosophy  of  its  laws,  than  love  or  ambition  had  ever  done  before. 
The  last  nad  rendered  h^r  proud  from  success,  the  first  had  caused  her  to 
feel  dependent  on  nrne  only  ;  but  now  that  she  was  about  to  abandon  all, 
she  found  herself  bouncT  to  all  by  stronger  ties  than  she  could  have  imagined. 
She  became  aware  that  any  new  connexion  could  never  be  adorned  by  the 
en  learin*  recollections  attending  those  she  had  already  formed.  The  friends 
of  her  youth,  her  mere  acquaintances,  she  regarded  with  peculiar  partiality, 
as  being  the  witnesses  or  sharers  of  her  past  joys  and  successes.  Each 
familiar  face  was  sanctified  in  her  eyes  by  association  ;  and  she  walked 
among  those  whom  she  had  so  lately  scorned,  as  if  they  were  saintly  memo- 
rials to  be  approached  with  awe,  and  quitted  with  eternal  regret.  Her 
hopes  and  prospects  had  hinged  upon  them,  but  her  life  became  out  of  joint 
-when  she  quitted  them.  Her  sensitive  nature  melted  in  unwonted  tender- 
ness while  occupied  by  such  contemplations,  and  they  turned  the  path,  she 
had  so  lately  entered  as  one  of  triumph  and  gladness,  to  gloom  and  despond- 
ence. 

Sometimes  she  pondered  upon  means  for  preserving  her  connexion  with 
the  wo  Id.  But  any  scheme  of  that  kind  was  fraught,  on  the  one  hand,  with 
mortification  to  herself,  on  the  other,  with  the  overthrow  of  her  designs, 
through  the  repugnance  which  Ethel  and  her  husband  would  feel  at  occa- 
sioning such  unmeasured  sacrifices.  She  often  regretted  that  there  were 
no  convents,  to  which  she  might  retire  with  safety  and  dignity.  Conduct, 
such  as  she  contemplated  pursuing,  would,  under  the  old  regime  in  France, 
have  been  recompensed  by  praise  and  gratitude;  while  its  irrevocability 
must  prevent  any  resistance  to  her  wishes.  In  giving  up  fortune  and  sta 
tion  she  would  have  placed  herself  under  the  guardianship  of  a  community  , 
and  have  found  protection  and  security,  to  compensate  for  poverty  and  sla- 
very. The  very  reverse  of  all  this  must  now  happen.  Alone,  friendless, 
unknown,  and  therefore  despised,  she  must  shift  for  herself,  and  rely  on  her 
own  resources  for  prudence  to  ensure  safety,  and  courage  to  endure  the  evils 
of  her  lot.  To  one  of  another  sex,  the  name  of  loneliness  can  never  con- 
vey the  idea  of  desolation  and  disregard,  which  gives  it  so  painful  a  mean- 
ing: in  a  woman's  mind.  They  have  not  been  taught  always  to  look  up  to 
others,  and  to  do  nothing  for  themselves  :  so  that  business  becomes  a  mat- 
ter of  heroism  to  a  woman,  when  conducted  in  the  most  common-place  way ; 
but  when  it  is  accompanied  by  mystery,  she  feels  herself  transported  from 


192  LODORE. 

her  fitting  place,  and  as  if  about  to  encounter  shame  and  contumely.  La- 
dy Lodore  had  never  been  conversant  with  any  mode  of  life,  except,  that  oi 
being  waited  on  and  watched  over.  In  the  poverty  of  her  eaily  girlhood, 
her  mother  had  been  constantly  at  her  side.  The  necessity  of  so  conduct- 
ing herself  as  to  prevent  the  shadow  of  slander  from  visiting  her,  had  con- 
tinued this  state  of  dependence  during  all  her  married  life.  She  had  never 
stepped  across  a  street  without  attendance  ;  nor  put  on  her  gloves,  but  as 
brought  to  her  by  a  servant.  Her  look  had  commanded  obedience,  and  her 
will  had  been  law  with  those  about  her.  This  was  now  to  be  altered,  She 
scarcely  reverted  in  her  mind  to  t  iese  minutia? ;  and  when  she  did,  it  was 
to  smile  at  herself  for  being  able  to  give  weight  to  such  trifles.  She  was 
not  aware  how,  hereafter,  these  small  things  would  become  the  shapings 
and  imbodyings  which  desertion  and  penury  would  adopt,  to  sting  her  most 
severely.  The  new  course  she  was  about  to  enter,  was  too  unknow  n  to 
make  her  fears  distinct.  There  was  one  vast  blank  before  her,  one  gigantic 
and  misshapen  image  of  desertion,  which  filled  her  mind  to  the  exclusion  of 
every  other,  but  whose  parts  were  not  made  out,  though  this  very  indistinct- 
ness was  the  thing  that  often  chiefly  appalled  her. 
She  said,  with  the  noble  exile,*  — 

*'  I  am  too  old  to  fawn  upon  a  nurse, 
Too  far  in  years  to  be  a  pupil  now.'1 

It  is  true  that  she  had  not,  like  him,  to  lament  that  — 

"  My  native  English  now  I  must  forego;" 

but  there  is  another  language,  even  more  natural  than  the  mere  dialect  in 
which  we  have  been  educated.  When  our  lips  no  longer  utter  the  senti- 
ments of  our  heart  —  when  we  are  forced  to  exchange  the  spontaneous  effu- 
sions of  the  soul  for  cramped  and  guarded  phrases,  which  give  no  indica- 
tion of  the  thought  within,  —  then,  indeed,  may  we  say,  that  our  tongue 
becomes 

"an  unstringed  viol,  or  a  harp, 

put  into  his  hands, 

That  knows  no  touch  to  tune  the  harmony." 

And  this  was  to  be  Lady  Lodore's  position.  Her  only  companions  would 
be  villa o-ers  ;  or,  at  best,  a  few  Welsh  gentry,  with  whom  she  could  have 
no  real  communication.  Sympathy,  the  charm  of  life,  was  dead  for  her, 
and  her  state  of  banishment  would  be  far  more  complete  than  if  mountains 
and  seas  only  constituted  its  barriers. 

Lady  Lodore  was  often  disturbed  by  these  reflections,  but  she  did  not  on 
that  account  waver  in  her  purpose.  The  flesh  might  shrink  but  the  spirit 
was  firm.  Sometimes,  indeed,  she  wondered  how  it  was  that  she  had  first 
conceived  the  design,  which  had  become  the  tyrant  of  her  life.  She  had 
lono-  known  that  she  had  a  daughter,  young,  lovely,-  and  interesting,  with- 
out any  great  desire  to  become  intimate  with  her.  Sometimes  pride,  some- 
times indignation,  had  checked  her  maternal  feelings.  The  only  time  before, 
in  which  she  had  felt  any  emotion  similar  to  that  which  now  governed  her,  was 
on  the  day  when  she  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  House  of  Lords.  But  instead 
of  indulging  it,  she  had  fled  from  it  as  an  enemy,  and  despised  herself  as  a 
dupe,  for  being  for  one  instant  its  subject.  W  hen  her  fingers  then  touched  her 
daughter's  cheek,  she  had  not  trembled  like  Ethel ;  yet  an  awful  sensation 
passed  through  her  frame,  which  for  a  moment  stunned  her,  and  she  hastily 

*  Eichard  II. 


retreated,  to  recover  herself.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  she  longed  to  strain 
nor  child  to  hsr  heart ;  she  thought  no  sacrifice  too  great,  which  was  to  con- 
duct to  her  advantage ;  and  that  she  condemned  herself  never  to  see  her  more 
appeared  the  hardest  part  of  the  lot  she  was  to  undergo.  Why  was  this 
change?  She  could  not  terl —  memory  could  not  inform  her.  She  only 
knew  that  since  she  had  seen  Ethel  in  her  adversity,  the  stoniness  of  her 
heart  had  dissolved  within  her,  that  her  whole  being  was  subdued  to  tender- 
ness, and  that  the  world  was  changed  from  what  it  had  been  in  her  eyes. 
She  felt  that  she  could  not  endure  life,  unless  for  the  sake  of  benefiting  her 
child  ;  and  that  this  sentiment  mastered  her  in  spite  of  herself,  so  that  every 
struggle  with  it  was  utterly  vain. 

Thus  if  she  sometimes  repined  at  the  hard  fate  that  drove  her  into  exile, 
yet  she  never  wavered  in  her  intentions  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  regret,  a  kind 
of  exultation  was  born,  which  calmed  her  pain.  Smiles  sal  upon  her  fea- 
tures, and  her  voice  was  attuned  to  cheerfulness.  The  new-sprung  tender- 
ness of  her  soul  imparted  a  fascination  to  her  manner  far  more  irresistible 
than  that  to  which  tact  and  polish  had  given  rise.  She  was  more  kind  and 
affectionate,  and,  above  all,  more  sincere,  and  therefore  more  winning.  Every 
one  fait,  though  none  could  divine  the  cause  of,  this  change.  It  was  remarked 
that  she  was  improved :  some  shrewdly  suspected  that  she  was  in  love. 
And  so  she  was  —  with  an  object  more  enchanting  than  any  earthly  lover. 
For  the  first  time  she  knew  and  loved  the  Spirit  of  good  and  beauty,  an 
affinity  to  which  affords  the  greatest  bliss  that  our  nature  can  receive. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

It  i=>  the  same,  for,  be  it  joy  or  sorrow, 

The  paih  of  its  departure  still  is  1'ree; 
Man's  yesterday  can  ne'er  be  like  his  morrow, 
Nor  augbt  eaJure  save  mutability. 

Shellei 

The  month  of  June  had  commenced.  In  spite  of  lawyer's  delays  ana 
the  dim>ulties  attendant  on  all  such  ne  Totiations,  they  were  at  last  concluded, 
and  nothing  remained  but  for  Lady  Lodore  to  sign  the  paper  which  was  to 
consign  her  to  comparative  destitution.  In  all  changes  we  feel  most  keenly 
the  operation  of  small  circumstances,  and  are  chiefly  depressed  by  the 
necessity  of  stooping  to  the  direction  of  petty  arrangements,  and  having  to 
deal  with  subordinate  persons. 

To  complete  her  design,  Lady  Lodore  had  to  make  many  arrangements, 
trivial  yet  imperative,  which  called  for  her  attention,  when  she  was  least 
fitted  to  give  it,  She  had  met  these  demands  on  her  patience  without 
shrinking;  and  all  was  prepared  for  the  finishing  stroke  about  to  be  put  to 
her  plans.  She  dismissed  those  servants  whom  she  did  not  intend  to  leave 
in  the  house  for  Ethel's  use.  She  contrived  to  hasten  the  intended  marriage 
of  her  own  maid,  so  to  disburlhen  herself  wholly.  The  mode  by  which  she 
was,  solitary  and  unknown,  to  reach  the  mountains  of  Wales  without 
creating  suspicion,  or  leaving  room  for  conjecture,  was  no  easy  matter. 
In  human  life,  one  act  is  born  of  another,  so  that  any  one  that  disjoins  itself 
from  the  rest  instantly  gives  rise  to  curiosity  and  inquiry.  Lady  Lodore, 
though  fertile  in  expedients,  was  almost  foiled  :  the  eligibility  of  having 
one  confidant  pressed  itself  upon  her.  She  thought  of  Fanny  Derham ; 
but  her  extreme  youth,  and  her  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Villiers,  which  would 
have  necessitated  many  falsehoods,  so  to  preserve  the  secret,  deterred  her : 
she  determined  at  last  to  trust  to  herself  alone.     She  resolved  to  take  with 

34—1 
\ 


W4  LODOKE. 

her  one  servant  only,  who  had  not  been  Ion<*  in  her  serf icef  and  to  dismiss 
hirrt  immediately  after  leaving  London,  Difficulties  presented  themselves 
on  every  side  \  but  she  believed  that  they  could  be  best  surmounted  by 
obviating  them  in  succession  as  they  arose,  and  that  any  fixed  artificial 
pTau  wouM  only  tend  to  embarrass,  while  a  simple  mode  of  proceeding 
woula  continue  unquestioned. 

Her  chief  art  consisted  in  not  appearing  to  be  making  any  change  at  all. 
She  talked  of  a  visit  of  two  or  three  months  to  Emms,  and  mentioned  her 
intention  of  lending  her  house,  during  the  interval,  to  her  daughter.  She 
thus  secured  to  herself  a  certain  period  during  which  no  cariosity  would  be 
'Kcited  ;  and  after  a  month  or  two  had  passed  away,  she  would  be  utterly 
forgotten  :  — thus  she  reasoned  ;  and  whether  it  were  a  real  tomb  that  she 
entered,  or  the  living  grave  which  she  anticipated,  her  name  and  memory 
would  equally  vanish  from  the  earth,  and  she  be  thought  of  no  more.  If 
Ethel  ever  entertained  a  wish  to  see  her,  Villiers  would  be  at  hand  to  check 
and  divert  it  Who  else  was  there  to  spend  a  thought  upon  her?  Alone 
upon  earth,  no  friendly  eye,  solicitous  tor  her  welfare,  would  seek  to  pene- 
trate the  mystery  in  which  she  was  about  to  envelop  herself. 

The  day  catne,  it  was  the  second  of  June,  when  every  preliminary  was 
accomplished.  She  had  signed  away  all  that  she  possessed  —  she  had 
done  it  with  a  smile  —  and  her  voice  was  unfaltering.  The  sum  which 
she  had  saved  for  herself  consisted  of  but  a  few  hundred  pounds,  on  which 
she  was  to  subsist  for  the  future.  Again  she  enforced  his  pledge  of  secrecy 
on  Mr,  Gayland  ;  and  glad  that  all  was  over,  yet  heavy  at  heart  in  spite  of 
her  gladness,  she  returned  to  her  heme,  which  in  a  few  hours  she  was  to 
quit  for  ever, 

Du  ing  all  this  time  her  thoughts  had  seldom  reverted  to  Saville.  Hope 
was  dead,  and  the  regrets  of  love  had  vanished  with  it.  That  he  would 
approve  her  conduct,  was  an  idea  that  now  and  then  flashed  across  hei 
mind ;  but  he  would  remain  in  eternal  ignorance,  and  therefore  it  could  not 
bring  their  thoughts  into  any  communion.  Whether  he  came  to  England 
or  remained  at  Naples,  availed  her  nothing.  No  circumstance  could  add  to, 
or  diminish,  the  insuperable  barrier  which  his  marriage  placed  between  them. 
She  returned  home  from  her  last  interview  with  Mr,  Gayland  :  it  was 
our  o'clock  in  the  day  ;  at  six  she  had  appointed  Fanny  Derham  to  call  or? 
ler ;  and  an  hour  afterwards,  the  horses  were  ordered  to  be  at  the  doos 
which  were  to  convey  her  away. 

She  became  strangely  agitated.  She  took  herself  to  task  for  her  weak* 
ness  ;  but  every  moment  disturbed  yet  more  the  calm  she  was  so  anxious 
to  attain.  She  walked  through  the  rooms  of  the  house  she  had  dwelt  in  foi 
so  many  years.  She  looked  on  the  scene  presented  from  her  windows. 
The  drive  in  Hyde  Park  was  beginning  to  fill  with  carriages  and  eques- 
trians, to  be  thronged  with  her  friends  whom  she  was  never  again  to  see. 
Deep  sadness  erept  over  her  mind.  Her  uncontrollable  thoughts,  by  some 
association  of  ideas,  which  she  could  not  disentangle  —  brought  before  her 
the  image  of  Lodore,  with  more  vividness  than  it  had  possessed  for  years, 
A  kind  of  wish  to  cross  the  Atlantic,  and  to  visit  the  scenes  where  hjp  had 
dwelt  so  long,  arose  within  her ;  and  then  again  she  felt  a  desire  to  visit 
Longfield,  and  to  view  the  spot  in  which  his  mortal  remains  were  laid.  As 
her  imagination  pictured  the  grave  of  the  husband  of  her  youth,  whom  she 
had  abandoned  and  forgotten,  tears  streamed  from  her  eyes  —  the  first  she 
had  shed,  even  in  idea^ beside  it.  "It  is  not  to  atone  —  for  surely  I  was 
not  guilty  towards  him"  —  such  were  Lady  Lodore's  reflections, —  "yet, 
metliinks,  in  this  crisis  of  my  fate,  when  about  to  imitate  his  abrupt  and 
miserable  act  of  self- banishment,  my  heart  yearns  for  some  communication 
with  him;;  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if, approaching  his  cold,  silent  dust,  he 


LODORE.  195 

Would  hear  me  if  I  said,  '  Be  at  peace  !  your  child  is  happy  through  my 
means !'  " 
.  A^ain  her  reveries  were  attended  hy  a  gush  of  tears.  "How  strange  a 
fate  is  mine,  ever  to  be  abandoned  by,  or  to  abandon,  those  towards  whom 
I  am  naturally  drawn  into  near  contact.  Fifteen  years  are  flown  since  I 
pa.tid  from  Lodore  for  ever!  Then  by  inspiring  one  so  high-minded,  so 
richly  gifted,  as  Saville,  with  love  for  me,  fortune  appeared  ready  to  com- 
pensate for  my  previous  sufferings  ;  but  the  curse  again  operated,  and  I 
shall  never  see  him  more.  Yet  do  I  not  forget  thee,  Saville,  nor  thy  love! 
nor  can  it  be  a  crime  to  think  of  the  past,  whudi  is  as  irretrievable  as  if  the 
grave  had  closed  over  it.  Through  Savilie  it  has  been  that  1  have  not  lived 
quite  in  vain  —  that  I  have  known  what  love  is  ;  and  might  have  even  tasted 
of  happiness,  but  for  the  poison  which  perpetually  mingles  with  my  cup. 
I  never  wish  to  see  him  more ;  but  if  I  earnestly  desire  to  visit  Lodore's 
grave,  how  gladly  would  I  make  a  far  longer  pilgrimage  to  see  Saville'g 
child,  and  to  devote  myself  to  one  who  owes  its  existence  to  him.  Wretched 
Corn  ilia !  whit  tbnu  *hts  are  these  ?  Is  it  n  iw,  that  you  are  a  beggar  and 
an  outcast,  that  you  fist  encourage  unattainable  desires?" 

Still  as  she  looked  round,  and  remembered  how  often  Saville  had  been 
beside  her  in  that  room,  thoughts  and  regrets  thronged  faster  and  more 
thickly  on  her.  She  recollected  the  haughty  self-will  and  capricious  co- 
qu  ^try  which  had  caused  the  destruction  of  her  dearest  hopes.  She  took 
down  a  miniature  of  herself,  which  her  lover  had  so  fruitlessly  besought 
her  to  give. him.  It  was  on  the  belief  that  she  had  bestowea  this  picture 
on  a  rival  that  he  had  so  suddenly  come  to  the  determination  of  quitting 
England.  It  seemed  now  in  its  smiles  and  youth  to  reproach  her  for  hav- 
ing wasted  both;  and  the  sight  of  it  a,itated  her  bosom,  and  produced  a 
tumult  of- regret  and  despair  at  his  loss  — till  she  threw  it  from  her,  as  too 
dearly  associated  with  one  she  must  forget.  And  yet  wherefore  forget?  — 
he  had  forgotten  ;  but  as  a  dead  wife  might  in  her  grave  love  her  husband, 
though  wedded  to  another,  so  might  the  lost,  Luried  Cornelia  remember 
him,  though  the  husband  of  Clorinda.  Self-compassion  now  moved  her  to 
tears,  and  she  wept  plentiful  showers,  which  rather  exhausted  than  relieved 
her. 

With  a  strong  effort  she  recalled  her  sense  of  what  was  actually  going 
on,  and  struggling  resolutely  to  calm  herself,  she  sat  down  and  began  a 
letter  to  her  daughter,  which  was  necessary,  as  some  sort  of  explanation, 
at  once  to  allay  wonder  and  baffle  curiosity.     Thus  she  wrote: 

"Dearest  Ethel, 

"  Mv  hopes  have  not  been  deceived.  Mr.  Gayland  has  at  last  contrived 
m°ans  for  the  liberation  of  your  husband  ;  and  to-morrow  morning  you  will 
leave  that  shocking  place.  Perhaps  I  receive  more  pleasure  from  this  piece 
of  sjood  fortune  than  you,  for  your  sense  of  duty  and  sweet  disposition  so 
gild  the  vilest  objects,  that  you  live  in  a  world  of  your  own,  as  beautiful  as 
yourself,  and  the  accident  of  situation  is  immaterial  to  you. 

^'  It  is  not  enough,  however,  that  you  should  be  free.  I  hope  that  the 
punctilious  delicacy  of  Mr.  Villiers  will  not  cause  you  to  reject  the  benefits 
of  a  mother.  In  this  instance  there  is  more  of  justice  than  generosity  in 
my  offer ;  and  it  may  therefore  be  accepted  without  the  smallest  hesitation. 
My  jointure  ought  to  satisfy  me,  and  the  additional  six  hundred  a  year  — 
which  I  may  call  the  price  of  blood,  since  I  bought  it  at  the  sacrifice  of  the 
dearest  ties  and  duties, — is  most  freely  at  your  service.  It  will  delight 
me  to  get  rid  of  it,  as  much  as  if  thus  I  threw  off*  the  consciousness  of  a 
crime.  It  is  yours  by  every  law  of  equity,  and  will  be  hereafter  paid  into 
your  banker's  hands.  Do  not  thank  me,  my  dear  child  —  be  happy,  that 
will  be  my  best  reward.     Be  happy,  be  prudent — this  sum  will  not  make 


196  LODORE. 

you  rich ;  and  the  only  acknowledgment  T  ask  of  you  is,  that  you  make 
it,  suffice,  and  avoid  debt,  and  embarrassment. 

"By  singular  coincidence  I  am  imperatively  obliged  to  leave  England  at 
this  moment.  The  horses  are  ordered  to  be  here  in  half  an  hour  —  I  am 
obliged  therefore  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  until  my  return. 
Will  you  forgive  me  this  apparent  neglect,  which  is  the  result  of  necessity, 
and  favour  me  by  coming  to  my  house  to-morrow,  on  leaving  your  present 
abode,  and  making  it  your  home  until  my  return  ?  Miss  Derham  has  prom- 
ised to  call  here  this  afternoon  ;  I  shall  see  her  before  I  go,  and  through 
her  you  will  learn  how  much  vou  will  make  me  your  debtor  by  accepting 
my  offers,  and  permitting  me  to  be  of  some  slight  use  to  you. 

"  Excuse  the  brevity  and  insufficiency  of  this  letter,  written  at  the 
moment  of  departure,  — You  will  hear  from  me  again,  when  1  am  able  to 
send  you  my  address,  and  1  shall  hope  to  have  a  letter  from  you.  Mean- 
while Heaven  bless  you,  my  angelic  Ethel !  Love  your  mother,  and  never, 
in  spite  of  every  thing,  permit  unkind  thoughts  of  her  to  harbour  in  your 
mind.  Make  Mr.  Viiliers  think  as  well  of  me  as  he  can,  and  believe  me 
that  your  welfare  will  always  be  the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart.     Adieu. 

"  Ever  affectionately  yours, 

C.  Lodore." 

She  folded  and  sealed  this  letter,  and  at  the  same  moment  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door  of  her  house,  which  she  knew  announced  the  arrival  of 
Fanny  Derham.  She  was  still  much  agitated,  and  trying  to  calm  herself, 
she  took  up  a  newspaper,  and  cast  her  eyes  dowm  the  columns;  so,  by 
one  of  the  most  common-place  of  the  actions  of  our  life,  to  surmount  the 
painful  intensity  of  her  thoughts.  She  read  mechanically  one  or  two  para- 
graphs —  she  saw  the  announcements  of  births,  marriages,  and  deaths. 
"  My  moral  death  will  not  be  recorded  here,"  she  thought,  "  and  yet,  I 
shall  be  more  dead  .than  any  of  these."  The  thought  in  her  mind  remained 
as  it  were  truncated ;  her  eye  was  arrested  —  a  paleness  came  over  her  — 
the  pulses  of  her  heart  paused,  and  then  beat  tumultuously  —  how  strange 
—  how  fatal  were  the  words  she  read  !  — 

'  Died  suddenly  at  the  inn  at  the  Mola  di  Gaeta,  on  her  way  from 
Naples,  Clorinda,  the  wife  of  the  honourable  Horatio  Saville,  in  the  twenty- 
second  year  of  her  age." 

Her  drawing-room  door  was  opened,  the  butler  announced  Miss  Der- 
ham, while  her  eyes  still  were  fixed  on  the  paragraph  :  her  head  swam 
round  —  the  world  seemed  to  slide  from  under  her.  Fanny's  calm  clear 
voice  recalled  her.  She  conquered  her  agitation  —  she  spoke  as  if  she  had 
not  just  crossed  a  gulf —  not  been  transported  to  a  new  world  ;  and,  again, 
swifter  than  light,  brought  back  to  the  old  one.  She  conversed  with  Fanny 
for  some  time ;  giving  some  kind  of  explanation  for  not  having  been  to  see 
Ethel,  begging  her  young  friend  to  press  her  invitation,  and  speaking  as  if 
in  autumn  they  should  all  meet  again.  Fanny,  philosophic  as  she  was, 
regarded  Lady  Lodore  with  a  kind  of  idolatry.  The  same  charm  that  had 
fascinated  the  unworldly  and  abstracted  Saville,  she  exercised  over  the 
thoughtful  and  ingenuous  mind  of  the  fair  young  student.  It  was*the 
att  action  of  engaging  manners,  added  now  to  the  sense  of  right,  joined 
to  the  timid  softness  of  a  woman,  who  trembled  on  acting  unsupported, 
even  though  her  conscience  approved  her  deeds.  It  was  her  loveliness 
which  had  gained  in  expression  what  it  had  lost  in  youth,  and  kindness  of 
heart  was  the  soul  of  the  enchantment.  Fanny  ventured  to  remonstrate 
against  her  sudden  departure.  •'  Oh,  we  shall  soon  meet  again,"  said  Cor- 
nelia ;  but  her  thoughts  v^ere  more  of  heaven  than  earth,  as  the  scene  of 
meeting ;  for  her  heart  was  chilled  —  her  head  throbbed —  the  words  she 


LODORE.  197 

had  read  operated  a  revolution  in  her  frame,  more  allied  to  sickness  and 
deatn,  than  hope  or  triumph. 

Fa-iny  at  length  took,  her  leave,  and  Lady  Lodore  was  again  alone.  She 
took  up  the  newspaper  —  hastily  she  read  again  the  tidings;  she  sunk  on 
the  sofa,  burying  her  face  in  the  pillow,  trying  not  to  think,  while  she  was 
indeed  the  prey  to  the  wildest  thoughts* 

"  Yes,"  thus  ran  her  reflections,  "  he  is  free  —  he  is  no  longer  married  ! 
Fool,  fc.ol !  he  is  still  lost  to  you  !  —  an  outcast  and  a  beggar,  shall  1  solicit 
hi '  love!  which  he  believes  that  I  rejected  when  prosperous.  Rather 
never,  never,  let  me  see  him  again.  My  beauty  is  tarnished,  my  youth 
fi  nvn  ;  he  would  only  see  me  to  wonder  how  he  had  ever  loved  me.  Bet- 
ter hide  beneath  the  mountains  among  which  I  am  soon  to  find  a  home  — 
better,  far  better,  die,  than  see  Saville  and  read  no  love  in  his  eyes. 

"  Yet  thus  again  I  cast  happiness  from  me.  What,  then  would  I  do  ? 
Unweave  the  web  —  implore  Mr.  Villiers  to  endure  my  presence  —  reveal 
my  state  of  beggary  —  ask  thanks  for  my  generosity,  and  humbly  wait  for 
a  kind  glance  from  Saville,  to  raise  me  to  wealth  as  well  as  to  happiness. 

—  Cornelia,  awake  !  —  be  not  subdued  at  the  last  —  act  not  against  your 
disposition,  the  pride  of  your  soul  —  the  determinations  you  have  formed  — 
do  not  learn  to  be  humble  in  adve.sity —  you,  who  were  disdainful  in  hap- 
pier days —  no!  if  they  need  me  —  if  they  love  me  —  if  Saville  still  re- 
membes  the  worship  — the  heart's  entire  sacrifice  which  once  he  made  to 
me.  —  will  a  few  miles  —  tne  obscurity  of  my  abode  —  or  the  silence  and 
mvstery  that  surrounds  me,  check  his  endeavours  that  we  should  once  again 
meet  ? 

"  No  I1'  she  said,  rising,  "my  destiny  is  in  other  and  higher  hands  than 
my  own.  It  w^ere  vain  to  endeavour  to  control  it.  Whatever  I  do,  works 
against  me ;  now  let  the  thread  be  spun  to  the  end,  while  I  do  nothing ;  I 
can  hut  endure  the  worst  patiently  ;  and  how  much  better  to  bear  hi  silence, 
than  to  st-uggle  vainly  with  the  irrevocable  decree!  I  submit.  Let  prov- 
idence wo  -k  out  its  own  ends,  and  God  dispose  of  the  being  he  nas  made 

—  whether  I  reap  the  harvest  in  this  world  or  in  the  next,  my  part  is  played, 
I  W'U  strive  no  more !" 

She  believed  in  her  own  singleness  of  purpose  as  she  said  this,  and  yet 
she  was  never  more  deceived.  While  she  boasted  of  her  resignation,  she 
was  yielding  not  to  a  high  moral  power,  but  to  the  pride  of  her  soul.  Her 
resolutions  were  in  accordance  with  the  haughtiness  of  her  disposition,  and 
she  felt  satisfied,  not  because  she  was  making  a  noble  sacrifice,  but  because 
sh^>  thus  adorned  more  magnificently  the  idol  she  set  up  for  worship,  and 
believed  herself  to  be  more  worthy  of  applause  and  love.  Yet  who  could 
co'idemn  even  errors  that  led  to  such  unbending  and  heroic  forgetfulness  ol 
all  the  baser  propensities  of  our  nature.  Nor  was  this  feeling  of  triumph 
Ioo°:-livM  ;  the  wounding  and  humiliating  realities  of  life  soon  degraded 
her  f  om  her  pedestal,  and  made  her  feel,  as  it  were,  the  disgrace  and  indig- 
nities of  abdication. 

FLr  travelling  chariot  drove  up  to  the  door,  and,  after  a  few  moments' 
preparation,  she  was  summoned.  Again  she  looked  round  the  room;  her 
he'-ut  ^welled  hirii  with  impatience  and  repining,  but  again  she  conquered 
herself.  She  took  up  her  miniature  —  that  now  she  might  possess  —  for 
she  could  remember  without  sin  —  she  took  up  the  newspaper,  which  did 
or  d;d  not  contain  the  fiat  of  her  fate  ;  but  this  action  appeared  to  militate 
against  the  state  of  resi  ^nation  she  had  resolved  to  attain,  so  she  threw  it 
down  :  she  walked  down  the  stairs,  and  passed  out  from  her  house  for  the 
last  time  —  she  got  into  the  carriage  — the  door  was  closed  —  the  horses 
we-e  in  motion  — ■  all  was  over. 

Her  hea-1  f  dt  sick  and  heavy  ;  she  leaned  hack  in  her  carriage  half  stu- 
pified.  When  at  last  London  and  its  suburbs  were  passed,  the  sight  of 
1* 


108  LODORE. 

the  open  eountrv  a  little  revived  her  —  but  she  soon  drooped  again.  No- 
thins;  presented  itself  to  her  thoughts  with  any  clearness,  and  the  exultation 
which  had  supported  her  vanished  totally.  She  only  knew  that  she  was 
alone,  poor,  tor  .often  ;  these  words  hovered  on  her  lips,  mingled  with 
othe  .s,  by  which  she  endeavoured  to  charm  away  her  despondency.  For- 
titude and  resignation  for  herself —  freedom  and  happiness  for  Ethel.  "  Ch 
ves,  she  is  free  and  happy  —  it  matters  not  then  what  I  am  !"  No  tears 
flowed  to  soften  this  thought.  The  bright  green  country  —  the  meadows, 
mingled  with  unripe  corn-fields —  the  tufted  woods  —  the  hedge-rows  full 
of  flowers,  could  not  attract  her  eye  ;  pangs  every  now  and  then  seized 
upon  her  heart  --  she  had  talked  of  resignation,  but  she  was  delivered  up  to 
despair. 

At  length  she  sunk  into  a  kind  of  stupor.  She  was  accompanied  by 
one  servant  only  ;  she  had  told  him  where  she  intended  to  remain  that 
niifht.  it  was  past  eleven  before  they  arrived  at  Reading;  the  night  was 
chill,  and  she  shivered  while  she  felt  as  if  it  were  impossible  to  move,  even 
to  draw  jp  the  glasses  of  her  chariot.  "When  she  arrived  at  the  inn  where 
she  was  to  pass  the  night,  she  felt  keenly  the  discomfort  of  having  no 
female  aitendant.  It  was  new  —  she  fell  as  if  it  were  disgraceful,  to  find 
herself  alone  among  strangers,  to  be  obliged  to  give  orders  herself,  and  to 
prepare  done  for  her  repose. 

All  nisht  she  could  not  sleep,  and  she  became  aware  at  last  that  she  was 
ill.  Sho  burned  with  fever  —  her  whole  frame  was  tormented  by  aches,  by 
alternate  ho:  and  shivering  fits,  and  by  a  feeling  of  sickness.  When  morn- 
ing dawned,  it  was  worse.  She  grew  impatient —  she  rose.  She  had  ar- 
ranged that  her  servant  should  quit  her  at  this  place.  He  had  been  but  a 
short  time  with  her,  and  was  easily  dismissed,  under  the  idea  that  she  was 
to  be  joined  by  a  man  recommended  bv  a  friend,  who  was  accustomed  to 
the  continent,  whither  it  was  supposed  that  she  was  going.  She  had  dis- 
missed him  the  night  before,  he  was  already  gone,  when  on  the  morrow  she 
ordered  the  horses.  —  She  paid  the  bills  herself —  and  had  to  answer  ques- 
tions about  luggage ;  all  these  things  are  customary  to  the  poor,  and  to  the 
other  sex.  But  take  a  high-born  woman  and  place  her  in  immediate  contact 
with  the  rough  material  of  the  world,  and  see  how  like  a  sensitive  plant  she 
will  shrink,  close  herself  up  and  droop,  and  feel  as  if  she  had  fallen  from 
her  native  sphere  into  a  spot  unknown,  ungenial,  and  full  of  storms. 

The  illness  that  oppressed  Lady  Lodore,  made  these  natural  feelings 
even  more  acute,  till  at  last  they  were  blunted  by  the  same  cau=e.  She  now- 
wondered  what  it  was  that  ailed  her,  and  became  terrified  at  the  occasional 
wanderings  ihat  interrupted  her  torpor.  Once  or  twice  she  wished  to  speak 
to  the  post-bov,  but  her  voice  failed  her.  At  lenc  th  they  drove  up  to  the  inn 
at  Newbury  ;  fresh  horses  were  called  for,  and  the  landlady  eameiip  to  the 
door  of  the"  carriage,  to  ask  whether  the  lady  had  breakfasted — 'whether 
she  would  take  anv  thing.  There  was  something  ghastly  in  Lady  Lodore's 
appearance,  which  at  once  frightened  the  good  woman,  and  excited  her 
compassion.  She  renewed  her  questions,  which  Lady  Lodore  had  not  at 
first  heard,  addin?,  "You  seem  ill,  ma'am;  do  take  something  —  had  you 
not  better  alight  ?T' 

"  Oh  yes,  far  better,"  said  Cornelia  ;   "  for  I  think  T  must  be  very  ill." 

The  change  of  posture  and  cessation  of  motion  a  little  revived  her,  and 
she  began  to  think  that  she  was  mistaken,  and  that  it  was  all  nothing,  and 
that  she  was  well.  She  was  conducted  into  the  parlour  of  the  inn,  and  the 
landladv  left  her  to  order  refreshment.  "How  foolish  I  am,"  she  thought ; 
**  this  is  mere  fancy  ;  there  is  mining  the  matter  with  me  ;"  and  she  rose 
to  tins  the  bell,  and  to  order  horses.  When  suddenly,  without  any  previ- 
ous warning,  struck  as  by  a  bolt,  she  fainted,  and  fell  on  the  floor,  without 
any  power  of  saving  herself.     The  sound  of  her  fall  quickened  the  steps  ol 


LODORE.  199 

the  landlady,  who  was  returning  ;  all  the  chamber-maids  were  summoned, 
a  doctor  sent  for,  and  when  Lady  Lodore  opened  her  eyes  she  saw  unknown 
faces  about  her,  a  strange  place,   and  v;  -tranter.     She  did  not 

speak,  but  tried  to  collect  her  thoughts,  and  to  unravel  the  mystery,  as  it 
appeared,  of  her  situation.  But  soon  her  thoughts  wandered,  and  fererand 
weakness  made  her  yield  to  the  solicitations  of  those  around.  The  doctor 
came,  ana  could  make  out  notiung  but  tn  as  in  a  hizh  fever:   he 

ordered  ner  to  be  put  to  bed.  And  thus  —  --aville,  and  Ethel,  and  all  hopes 
an!  fears,  hiving  vanished  from  her  thoughts  —  given  up  to  delirium  and 
suffenn.:.  poor  Lady  Lodore,  alone,  unknown,  and  unattended,  remained 
for  several  weeks  at  a  count  y  inn  —  under  the  hands  of  a  village  doctor  — 
to  recover,  if  God  pleased,  if  not,  to  sink,  unrnourned  and  unheard  of,  into 
an  untimely  gruve. 


I  CHAPTER  L. 

But  if  for  me  thou  ds 
S  "*.ie  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipped  image  fhira  his  base, 
To  give  tu  me  the  niiued  place  — 

Then  fare  thee  well  —  I'd  rather  make 
My    ovrer  ap  >n  some  icy  iafce, 
When  thaviE-  was  be*      .    3       e 
Than  trust  tu  love  so  fa!-e  as  c 

Li.LI.JL   RoOKH- 

Ox  the  same  day  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yilliers  left  their  sad  dwelling  to  take 
possession  of  Lady  Loose's  house.  The  generosity  and  kindness  of  her 
mother,  such  as  it  appeared,  though  she  knew  but  the  smallest  portion  of 
it,  charmed  Ethel.  Her  heart,  which  had  so  long  struggled  to  luve  her, 
was  gladdened  by  the  proofs  given  that  she  deserved  her  warmest  affection. 
The  truest  delight  beamed  from  her  lovely  countenance.  Even  she  had 
felt  the  gloom  and  depression  of  adversity.  The  sight  of  misery  or  vice  in 
those  around  her  tarnished  the  holy  fervour  with  which  she  would  otherwise 
have  made  every  sacrifice  for  Edward's  sake.  There  is  something  in  this 
world,  which  even  while  it  «*wes  an  unknown  grace  1  ;•  rough,  and  hard, 
and  mean  circumstances,  contaminates  the  beairy  and  hannonv  of  the  no- 
bUanl  exalted.  Ethel  had  been  aware  of  t  as  s  i  ireaded  l:s  s 
influence  over  Villiers,  and  in  spite  of  herself  she  pined  ;  she  had  felt  with 
a  shu  Ider,  that  in  spite  of  love  and  fortitude,  a  sense,  chilling  and  despon 
wis  creenuag  over  her,  making  her  feel  the  earth  ali 

her  awaVTtom  the  sadness  of  the  scene  around  to  a  world  bright  and  pure 
as  herself.      Her  very  despair  thus  dressed  itself  in  the  garb  of  religion  ;  and 
though  these  visitations  of  melancholy  only  came  during  the  ths*    .     _  *  Vil- 
liers.  and  were  never  indulged  in,  yet  they  we  e  too  natural  a  growth  oi 
wretched  ab->de  to  be  easily  or  entirely  dismissed.     Eve  . 
re=t:>rH  to  the  fairer  scenes  of  life,  compassion  tor  the  unfor:  -  «gs 

sh1  quitted  haunted  her,  and  herfeetings  were  too  keenly  alive  to  the  i     -  - 
ries  which  her  fellow-creatures  suffered,  to  permit  her  to  i  from  all 

pain  bv  her  own  exemotion.     She  turned  foil  suehrefl 
of  her  dear  ki^d  mother  with  delight.     The  roof  that  sheltered  her 
hallowsd  a-  hjrs;   ail  the  blessings  of  life  which  sne   enjoyed   came  to  her 
from  the  «amj  source  as  life  itself.     She  delighted  to  trace  the  current  of 
feeling  which  ha  I  occasioned  her  to  give  up  so  much,  and  to  imagine  the 
sweetness  of  disposition,  the  vivacity  of  mind,  the  talents  and  accomplish- 


SCO  LODORE. 

merits,  which  her  physiognomy  expressed,  and  the  taste  manifested  in  he? 
house,  and  all  the  things  which  she  had  collected  around  her,  evinced. 

In  less  than  a  month  after  their  liberation,  she  gave  birth  to  a  son.  The 
mingled  danger  and  rejoicing  attendant  on  this  event,  imparted  fresh 
strength  to  the  attachment  that  united  Edward  to  her  ;  and  the  little  stran- 
ger himself  was  a  new  object  of  tenderness  ano  interest.  Thus  their  days 
of  mourning  were  exchanged  for  a  happir^ss  most  natural  and  welcome  to 
the  human  heart.  At  this  time  also  Horatio  Saville  returned  from  Italy 
with  his  little  girl.  She  was  scarcely  more  than  a  year  old,  but  displayed 
an  intelligence  to  be  equalled  only  by  her  extraordinary  beauty.  Her 
golden  silken  ringlets  were  even  then  profuse,  her  eyes  were  as  dark  and 
brilliant  as  her  mother's,  but.  her  compi*  x:on  was  fair,  and  the  same  sweet 
smile  flitted  round  her  infant  mouth,  as  gave  the  charm  to  her  father's  face. 
He  idolized  her,  and  tried  by  his  tenderness  and  attention  to  appease,  as  it 
were,  the  manes  of  the  unfortunate  Clorinda. 

She,  poor  girl,  had  been  the  victim  of  the  violence  of  passion  and  ill- 
regulated  feelings  native  to  her  country,  excited  into  unnatural  force  by  the 
singularity  of  her  fate.  When  Saville  saw  her  first  in  her  convent,  she 
was  pining  for  liberty ;  she  did  not  think  of  any  joy  beyond  escaping  the 
troublesome  impertinence  of  the  nuns  and  the  monotonous  tenor  of  mo- 
nastic life  of  associating  with  people  she  loved,  and  enjoying  the  common 
usages  of  life,  unfettered  by  the  restrictions  that  rendered  her  present  exist- 
ence a  burden.  But  though  she  desired  no  more,  her  disgust  for  the  present^ 
her  longing  for  a  change,  was  a  powerful  passion.  She  was  adorned  by 
talents,  by  genius  ;  she  was  eloquent  and  beautiful,  and  full  of  enthusiasm 
and  feeling.  Saville  pitied  her;,  he  lamented  her  future  fate  among  her 
unworthy  countrymen  ;  he  longed  to  cherish,  to  comfort.,  and  to  benefit  her. 
His  heart,  so  easily  won  to  tenderness,  gave  het  readily  a  brother's  regard. 
Others,  seeing  the  active  benevolence  and  lively  interest  that  this  sentiment 
elicited,  might  have  fancied  him  inspired  by  a  wamer  feeling  ;  but  he  well 
knew  the  difference,  he  ardently  desired  her  happiness,  but  did  not  seek 
his  own  in  her. 

He  visited  her  frequently,  he  brought  her  books,  he  taught  her  English. 
They  were  allowed  to  meet  daily  in  the  parlour  of  the  convent,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  female  attendant ;  and  his  admiration  of  her  talents,  her  ima- 
gination, her  ardent  comprehensive  mind,  increased  on  every  interview. 
They  talked  of  literature  —  the  poets  —  the  arts  ;  Clorinda  sang  to  him, 
and  her  fine  voice,  cultivated  by  the  nicest  art,  was  a  source  of  deep  pleas- 
ure and  pain  to  her  auditor.  His  sensibility  was  awakened  by  the  tones  of 
love  and  rapture  —  sensibility,  not  alas  !  for  her  who  sang,  but  for  the  false 
and  absent.  While  listening,  his  fancy  recalled  Lady  Lodore?s  image  ; 
the  hopes  she  had  inspired,  the  rapture  he  had  felt  in  her  presence- — the 
warm  vivifying  effect  her  voice  and  looks  had  on  him  were  remembered,  and 
his  heart  sank  within  him  to  think  that  all  this  sweetness  was  deceptive, 
fleeting,  tost.  Once,  overcome  by  these  thoughts,  he  resolved  to  return 
suddenly  to-  England,  to  make  one  effort  more  to  exchange  unendurable 
wretchedness-  for  the  most  transporting  happiness  —  absence  from  Cor- 
nelia, to  the  joy  of  pouring  out  the  overflowing  sentiments  of  his  heart  at 
her  feet.  White  indulging  in  this  idea,  a  letter  from  his  sister  Lucy  caused 
a  painful  revulsion  j  she  painted  the  woman  of  the  world  given  ~ip  to  am- 
bition and  fashion,  rejoicing  in  his  departure,  and  waiting  only  the  mo- 
ment when  she  might  with  decency  become  the  wife  of  another.  Saville 
w.as  almost  maddened  —  he  did  not  visit  Clorinda  for  three  days.  She 
received  him,  when  at  last  he  came,  without  reproach,  but  with  transport  j 
she  saw  that  sadness,  even  sickness,  dimmed  his  eye ;  she  soothed  him, 
she  hung  over  him  with  fondness,  she  sung  to  him  her  sweetest,  softest 
airs ;  his  heart  melted,  a  tear  .stole  from  his  eye.    Clorinda  saw  his  ema- 


LODORE.  201 

tion  ;  it  excited  hers  ;  her  Neapolitan  vivacity  was  not  restrained  by  shame 
nor  fear,  —  she  spoke  of  her  love  for  him  with  the  vehemence  she  felt,  and 
youth  and  beauty  hallowed  the  frankness  and  energy  of  her  expressions. 
Saville  was  touched  and  pleased,  —  he  left  her  to  meditate  on  this  new  state 
of  things  —  for,  free  from  passion  himself,  he  had  never  suspected  the 
growth  of  it  in  her  heart.  He  reflected  on  all  her  admirable  qualities,  and 
the  pity  it  was  that  they  should  be  cast  at  the  feet  of  one  of  her  own 
unrefined,  uneducated  countrymen,  who  would  be  incapable  of  appre- 
ciating her  talents  —  even  her  love  —  so  that  at  last  she  would  herself 
become  degraded,  and  sink  into  that  system  of  depravity  which  makes  a 
prey  of  all  that  is  lovely  or  noble  in  our  nature.  He  could  save  her  —  she 
loved  him,  and  he  could  save  her  ;  lost  as  he  was  to  real  happiness,  it  were 
to  approximate  to  it  if  he  consecrated  his  life  to  her  welfare. 

Yet  he  would  not  deceive  her.  The  excess  of  love  which  she  bestowed 
demanded  a  return  which  he  could  not  give.  She  must  choose  whether, 
such  as  he  was,  he  were  worth  accepting.  Actuated  by  a  sense  of  justice, 
he  opened  his 'heart  to  her  without  disguise:  he  told  her  of  his  ill-fated 
attachment  to  another — of  his  self-banishment,  and  misery  —  he  declared 
his  real  and  earnest  affection  for  her  —  his  desire  to  rescue  her  from  hei 
present  fate,  and  to  devote  his  life  to  her.  Clorinda  scarcely  heard  what  he 
said,  —  she  felt  only  that  she  might  become  his  — that  he  would  marry  her  ; 
her  rapture  was  undisguised,  and  he  enjoyed  the  felicity  of  believing  that 
one  so  lovely  and  excellent  would  at  once  owe  every  blessing  of  life  to  him, 
and  that  the  knowledge  of  this  must  ensure  his  own  content.  The 
consent  of  her  parents  was  easily  yielded, — the  Pope  is  always  ready  to 
grant  a  dispensation  to  a  Catholic  wife  marrying  a  Protestant  husband 
—  the  wedding  speedily  took  place  —  and  Saville  became  her  husband. 

Their  mutual  torments  now  began.  Horatio  was  a  man  of  high  and  un- 
shrinking principle.  He  never  permitted  himself  to  think  of  Lady  Lodore, 
and  the  warmth  and  tenderness  of  his  heart  led  him  to  attach  himself  truly 
and  affectionately  to  his  wife.  But  this  did  not  suffice  for  the  Neapolitan. 
Her  marriage  withdrew  the  veil  of  life — she  imagined  that  she  distinguished 
the  real  fro  n  the  fictitious,  but  her  new  sense  of  discernment  was  the 
source  of  torture.  She  desired  to  be  loved  as  she  loved  ;  she  insisted  that 
her  rival  should  be  hated  —  she  was  shaken  by  continual  tempests  o»"  Jeal- 
ousy, and  the  violence  of  her  temper,  restrained  by  no  reserve  of  disposition. 
displayed  itself  frightfully.  Saville  reasoned,  reproached,  reprehended, 
without  any  avail,  except  that  when  her  violence  had  passed  its  crisis,  she 
repented,  and  wept,  and  besought  forgiveness.  Ethel  s  visit  had  been  a  blow 
hard  to  bear.  She  was  the  daughter  of  her  whom  Saville  loved  —  whom  he 
regretted  —  on  whom  he  expended  that  passion  and  idolatry,  to  attain  which 
she  would  have  endured  the  most  dreadful  tortures.  These  were  the  re- 
flections, or  rathtr,  these  were  the  ravings,  of  Clorinda.  She  had  never 
been  so  furious  in  her  jealousy,  or  so  frequent  in  her  fits  of  passion,  as  during 
the  visit  of  the  unconscious  and  gentle  Ethel. 

The  birth  of  her  chuJ  operated  a  beneficial  change  for  a  time;  and  except, 
when  Saville  spoke  of  England,  or  she  imagined  that  he  was  thinking  of  it, 
she  ceased  to  to  -ment  him.  He  was  glad ;  but  the  moment  was  passed 
when  she  could  command  his  esteem,  or  excite  his  spontaneous  sympathy. 
He  pitied  and  he  loved  her ;  but  it.  was  almost  as  we  may  become  attached 
to  an  unfortunate  and  lovely  maniac  ;  less  than  ever  did  he  seek  his  happi- 
ness? in  her.  He  loved  his  infant  daughter  now  better  than  any  other 
earthly  thins;.  Clorinda  rejoiced  in  this  tie,  though  she  soon  grew  jealous 
even  of  her  own  child. 

The  arrival  of  Lord  Maristow  and  his  daughters  was  at  first  full  of  bene- 
fit to  the  discordant  pair.    Clorinda  was  really  desirous  of  obtaining  theii 


202  LODORE. 

esteem,  and  she  exerted  herself  to  please  :  when  they  talked  of  her  return 
to  England  with  them,  it  only  excited  her  to  try  to  render  Italy  so  agreeable 
as  to  induce  them  to  remain  there.  They  were  not  like  Ethel.  They 
were  good  girls,  but  fashionable  and  fond  of  pleasure.  Clorinda  devised  a 
thous  and  amusements  —  concerts,  tableaux,  the  masquerades  of  the  carnival, 
were  all  put  in  requisition.  They  carried  their  zeal  for  amusement,  so  far 
as  to  take  up  their  abode  for  a  day  or  two  at  Pompeii,  feigning  to  be  its  an- 
cient inhabitants,  and  bringing  the  corps  operatique  to  their  aid,  got  up  Ros- 
sini's opera  of  the  Ultimi  Giorni  di  Pompeii  among  the  ruins,  ending  their 
masquerade  by  a  mimic  eruption.  These  gayetiesdid  not  accord  with  the 
classic  and  refined  tastes  of  Saville  ;  but  he  was  glad  to  find  his  wife  and 
sisters  agree  so  well,  and  under  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  laughing  land  of 
Naples,  it  was  impossible  not  to  find  beauty  and  enjoyment  even  in  extrav- 
agance and  folly. 

Still,  like  a  funeral  bell  heard  amidst  a  feast,  the  name  of  England,  and 
the  necessity  of  her  going  thither,  struck  on  the  ear  and  chilled  the  heart  of 
the  Neapolitan.  She  resolved  never  to  go ;  but  how  could  she  refuse  to 
accompany  her  husband's  sisters  ?  how  resist  the  admonitions  and  com- 
mands of  his  father  ?     She  did  not  refuse  therefore  —  she  seemed  to  consent 

—  while  she  said  to  Saville,  "  Poison,  stab  me  —  cast  me  down  the  crater  of 
the  mountain  —  exhaust  your  malice  and  hatred  on  me  as  you  please  here 

—  but  you  shall  never  take  me  to  England  but  as  a  corpse." 

Savilie  replied,  "  As  you  will."  He  was  tired  of  the  struggle,  and  left 
the  management  of  his  departure  to  others. 

One  day  his  sisters  described  the  delights  of  a  London  season,  and  strove 
to  win  Clorinda  by  the  mention  of  its  balls,  parties,  and  opera ;  they  spoke 
of  Almack'Sj  and  the  leaders  of  fashion  ;  they  mentioned  Lady  Lodore. 
They  were  unaware  that  Clorinda  knew  any  thing  of  their  brother's  attach- 
ment, and  speaking  of  her  as  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  their  associates 
in  the  London  world,  made  their  sister-in-law  aware  that  when  she  made 
a  part  of  it  she  would  come  into  perpetual  contact  with  her  rival.  This 
allusion  caused  one  of  her  most  violent  paroxysms  of  rage  as  soon  as  she 
found  herself  alone  with  her  husband.  So  frantic  did  she  seem,  that  Horatio 
spoke  seriously  to  his  father,  and  declared  he  knew  of  no  argument  nor 
pov  jr  which  could  induce  Clorinda  to  accompany  them  to  England.  "  Then 
I  on  must  go  without  her,"  said  Lord  Manstow ;  "  your  career,  your  family, 
your  country,  must  not  be  sacrificed  to  her  unreasonable  folly."  And  then, 
wholly  unaware  of  the  character  of  the  person  with  whom  he  had  to  deal, 
he  repeated  the  same  thing  to  Clorinda.  "  You  must  choose,"  he  said, 
"  between  Naples  and  your  husband  —  he  must  go  ;  do  you  prefer  being 
left  behind?" 

Clorinda  grew  pale,  even  livid.  She  returned  home.  Horatio  was  not 
there  ;  she  raved  through  her  house  like  a  maniac ;  her  servants  even  hid 
her  child  from  her,  and  she  rushed  from  room  to  room  tearing  her  hair,  and 
calling  for  Saville.  At  length  he  entered  ;  her  eyes  were  starting  from  her 
head,  her  frame  working  with  convulsive  violence ;  she  strove  to  speak  — 
to  give  utterance  to  the  vehemence  pent  up  within  her.  She  darted  towards 
him ;  when  suddenly,  as  if  s^ot  to  the  heart,  she  fell  on  the  marble  pave- 
ment of  her  chamber,  and  a  red  stream  poured  from  her  lips  —  she  had  burst 
a  blood  vessel.  - 

For  many  days  she  was  not  allowed  to  speak  nor  move.  Saville  nursed 
her  unremittingly  —  he  watched  by  her  at  night  —  he  tried  to  soothe  her  — 
he  brought  her  child  to  her  side  —  his  sweetness,  and  gentleness,  and  real 
tenderness,  were  all  expended  on  her.  Although  violent,  she  was  not. 
ungenerous.  She  was  touched  by  his  attentions,  and  the  undisguised 
solicitude  of  his  manner.  She  resolved  to  conquer  herself,  and  in  a  fit  of 
heroism  formed  the  determination  to  yield,  and  to  go  tc  England.    Her  first 


LODORE.  203 

words,  when  permitted  to  speak,  were  to  signify  her  assent.  Saville  kissed 
and  thanked  her.  She  had  half  imagined  that  he  would  imitate  her  gene- 
rosity, and  give  up  the  journey.  No  such  thought  crossed  his  mind  ;  her 
distaste  was  too  unreasonable  to  elicit  the  smallest  sympathy,  and  conse- 
quently any  concession.  He  thanked  her  warmly,  it  is  true,  and  looked 
delighted  at  this  change ;  but,  without  giving  her  time  to  retract,  he  hurried 
to  communicate  to  his  relations  the  agreeable  tidings. 

As  she  grew  better,  she  did  not  recede,  but  she  felt  miserable.  The 
goo  I  spirits  and  ready  preparations  of  Horatio  were  all  acts  of  treason 
against  her:  sometimes  she  felt  angry  —  but  she  checked  herself.  Like 
all  Italians,  Clorinda  feared  death  excessively  ;  besides  that,  to  die  was  to 
yield  the  entire  victory  to  her  rival.  She  struggled,  therefore,  and  con- 
quered herself ;  and  neither  expressed  her  angry  jealousy  nor  her  terrors. 
She  had  many  causes  of  fear;  she  was  again  in  a  situation  to  increase  her 
family  within  a  few  months ;  and  while  her  safety  depended  on  her  being 
able  to  attain  a  state  of  calm,  she  feared  a  confinement  in  England,  and 
Delieved  that  it  was  impossible  that  she  should  survive. 

She  was  worn  to  a  skeleton  —  her  large  eyes  were  sunk  and  ringed  with 
black,  while  they  burned  with  unnatural  brilliancy,  for  her  vivacity  did  not 
desert  her,  and  that  deceived  those  around  ;  they  fancied  that  she  was  con- 
valescent, and  would  soon  recover  strength  and  good  looks,  while  she 
nourished  a  deep  sense  of  wrong  for  the  slight  attention  paid  to  her  suff'er- 
ngs.  She  wept  over  herself  and  her  friendless  state.  Her  husband  was 
aot  her  friend,  for  he  was  not  her  countryman  :  and  full  as  Saville  was  of 
generous  sympathy  and  kindliness  for  all,  the  ideaof  returnins  to  England, 
to  his  home  and  friends,  to  the  stirring;  scenes  of  life,  and  the  society  of 
those  who  loved  literature,  and  were  endowed  with  the  spirit  of  liberal  in- 
quiry and  manly  habits  of  thinking,  so  absorbed  and  delighted  him,  that 
he  could  only  thank  Clorinda  again  and  again — caress  her,  and  entreat 
her  to  get  well,  that  she  might  share  his  pleasures.  His  wwds  chilled  her, 
and  she  shrunk  from  his  caresses.  "  He  is  thinking  of  her,  and  of  seeing 
her  again,"  she  thought.  She  did  him  the  most  flagrant  injustice.  Saville 
was  a  man  of  high  and  firm  principle,  and  had  he  been  aware  of  any  latent 
weakness,  of  any  emotion  allied  to  the  master-passion  of  his  soul,  he  would 
have  conquered  it,  or  have  fled  from  the  temptation.  He  never  thou  ht  less 
of  Lady  Lodore  than  now.  The  unwonted  gentleness  and  concess  ons  of 
his  wife,  his  love  for  his  child,  and  the  presence  of  his  father  and  dear 
sisters,  dissipated  his  regrets,  —  his  conscience  was  wholly  at  ease,  and  he 
was  happy. 

Clorinda  dared  not  complain  to  her  English  relatives,  but  she  listened  to 
the  lamentations  of  her  Neapolitan  friends  with  a  luxury  of  wo.  They 
mourned  over  her  as  if  she  were  going  to  visit  another  sphere  ;  they  pointed 
out  the  little  island  on  a  map,  and  seated  far  off*  as  it  was  amidst  the  north- 
ern sea,  ni^ht  and  storms,  they  averred,  perpetually  brooded  over  it,  while 
from  the  shape  of  the  earth  they  absolutely  proved  that  it  was  impossible  to 
get  there.  It  is  true  that  Lord  Maristow  and  his  daughters,  and  Saville 
himself,  had  come  thence  —  that  was  nothing  —  it  was  easy  to  come  away. 
"You  see,"  they  said,  "  the  earth  slopes  down,  and  the  sun  is  before  them  ; 
but  when  they  "have  to  go  back,  ah  !  it  is  quite  another  affair  ;  the  Alps 
rise,  and  the  sea  boils  over,  and  they  have  to  toil  up  the  wall  of  the  world 
itself  into  winter  and  darkness.  It  is  tempting  God  to  go  there.  Oh,  stay, 
Clorinda,  stay  in  sunny  Italy.  Orazio  will  return  :  do  not  go  to  die  in  that 
miserable  birth-place  of  night  and  frost." 

Clorinda  wept  yet  more  bitterly  over  her  hard  fate,  and  the  impossibility 
of  yielding  to  their  wishes.  "  Would  to  God,"  she  thought,  "  I  could 
abandon  the  ingrate,  and  let  him  go4ar  from  Italy  and  Clorinda,  £o  die  in 
his  wretched  country !     Would  I  could  forget,  hate,  desert  him !     Ah,  why 


204  LODURJE, 

do  I  idol  ze  one  born  in  that  chilly  land,  where  love  and  passion  are  un- 
known or  despised !" 

At  iength  the  day  arrived  when  they  left  Naples.  It  was  the  month  of 
May,  and  very  warm.  No  imagination  could  paint  the  glorious  beauty  oi 
this  country  of  enchantment,  on  the  completion  of  spring,  before  the  heats 
of  summer  had  withered  its  freshness.  The  sparkling  waves  of  the  blue 
Mediterranean  encircled  the  land,  and  contrasted  with  its  hues  :  the  rich 
foliage  of  the  trees  —  the  festooning  of  the  luxuriant  vines,  and  the  abundant 
vegetation  which  sprung  fresh  from  the  soil,  decorating  the  rocks,  and 
mantling  the  earth  with  flowers  and  verdure,  were  all  in  the  very  prime 
and  blossoming  of  beauty.  The  sisters  of  Saville  expressed  their  admira- 
tion in  warm  and  enthusiastic  terms  ;  the  words  trembled  on  poor  Clorinda's 
lips ;  she  was  about  to  say,  "  Why  then  desert  this  land  of  bliss  ?"  but 
Horatio  spoke  instead:  "  It  is  splendid,  I  own,  and  once  I  felt  all  that  you 
express.  Now  a  path  along  a  grassy  held  —  a  hedge-row —  a  copse  with 
a  rill  murmuring  through  it  —  a  white  cottage  with  simple  palings  enclosing 
a  flower-garden  —  the  spire  of  a  country  church  rising  from  among  a  tuft 
of  elms  —  the  skies  all  shadowy  with  soft  clouds —  and  the  homesteads  of 
a  happy  thriving  peasantry  —  these  are  the  things  I  sigh  for.  A  true 
English  home-scene  seems  to  me  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful,  as  it 
must  be  a  thousand  times  dearer,  than  the  garish  showy  splendour  of  Na- 
ples." 

Clorinda's  thoughts  crept  back  into  her  chilled  heart ;  large  tear-drops 
rose  in  her  eyes,  but  she  concealed  them,  and  shrinking  into  a  corner  oi 
the  carriage,  she  felt  more  lonely  and  deserted  that  she  would  have  cone 
among  strangers  who  had  loved  Italy,  and  participated  in  her  feelings. 

They  arrived  at  the  inn  called  the  Villa  di  Cicerone,  at  the  Mola  di 
Gaeta.  All  the  beauty  of  the  most  beautiful  part  of  the  Peninsula  seems 
concentred  in  that  enchanting  spot  —  the  perfume  of  orange  flowers  filled 
the  air — the  sea  was  at  their  feet  —  the  vine-clad  hills  around.  All  this 
excess  of  loveliness  only  added  to  the  unutterable  misery  of  the  Neapolitan 
girl.  Her  companions  talked  and  laughed,  while  she  felt  her  frame  con- 
vulsed by  internal  combats,  and  the  unwonted  command  she  exercised  over 
her  habitual  vehemence.  Horatio  conversed  gayly  with  his  sisters,  till 
catching  a  glimpse  of  the  pale  face  of  his  wretched  wife,  her  mournful  eves, 
and  wasted  cheeks,  he  drew  near  her.  "  You  are  fatigued, dearest  Clorinda," 
he  said  ;    "  will  you  not  go  to  rest  ?" 

He  said  this  in  a  tender  caressing  tone,  but  she  felt,  "  He  wants  to  send 
me  away  —  to  get  rid  even  of  the  sight  of  me."  But  he  sat  down  by  her, 
and  perceiving  her  dejection,  and  guessing  partly  at  its  cause,  he  soothed 
her,  and  talked  of  their  return  to  her  native  land,  and  cheered  her  by  expres- 
sions of  gratitude  for  the  sacrifice  she  was  making.  Her  heart  began  to 
soften,  and  her  tears  to  flow  more  freely,  when  a  man  entered,  such  as 
haunt  the  inns  in  Italy,  and  watch  for  the  arrival  of  rich  strangers  to  make 
profit  in  various  ways  out  of  them.  This  man  had  a  small  picture  for  sale, 
which  he  declared  to  be  an  original  Carlo  Dolce.  It  was  the  head  of  a 
seraph  painted  on  copper —  it  was  probably  a  copy,  but  it  was  beautifully 
executed  ,•  besides  the  depth  of  colour  and  grace  of  design,  there  was  some- 
thing singularly  beautiful  in  the  expression  of  the  countenance  portrayed, 
—  it  symbolized  happiness  and  love  ;  a  beaming  softness  animated  the  whole 
face  ,  a  perfect  joy,  an  ineffable  radiance  shone  out  of  it.  Clorinda  took  it 
in  her  hand  —  the  representation  of  Ifeart-felt  gladness  increased  her  self- 
pity  ;  she  was  turning  towards  her  husband  with  a  reproachful  look,  think- 
ing, ".Such  smiles  you  have  banished  from  my  face  for  ever," — when 
Sophia  Saville,  who  was  looking  over  her  shoulder,  exclaimed,  "What  an 
extraordinary  resemblance  !  —  there  was  never  any  thing  so  like." 

"  Who  ?  what  ?"  asked  her  sister. 


LJDORE,  205 

"It  is  Lady  Lodoie  herself,"  replied  Sophia  ;  "  her  eyes, her  mouth, her 
very  smiles  " 

Lucy  gave  a  quick  glance  towards  her  brother.  Horatio  involuntarily 
stepped  forward  to  look,  and  then  as  hastily  drew  back.  Clorinda  saw  it 
all  —  she  put  down  the  picture,  and  left  the  room  —  she  could  not  stay  — . 
she  could  not  speak  —  she  knew  not  what  she  felt,  but  that  a  fiery  torture 
was  eating  into  her,  and  she  must  fly,  she  knew  not  whither.  Saviile  was 
pained;  he  hesitated  what  to  doer  say  —  so  he  remained;  supper  was 
brought  in,  and  Clorinda  not  appearing,  it  was  supposed  that  she  had  re- 
tired to  rest.  In  about  an  hour  and  a  half  after,  lloiatio  went  into  her  room, 
and  to  his  horror  beheld  her  stretched  upon  the  cold  bricks  of  the  chamber, 
senseless  ;  the  moonbeams  rested  on  her  pale  face,  which  bore  the  hues  of 
death.  In  a  moment  the  house  was  alarmed,  the  village  doctor  summoned, 
a  courier  despatched  to  Naples  for  an  English  physician,  and  every  possible 
aid  afforded  the  wretched  sufferer.  She  was  placed  on  the  bed,  —  she  still 
lived;  her  faint  pulse  could  not  be  felt,  and  no  blood  flowed  when  a  vein 
was  opened,  but  she  groaned,  and  now  and  then  opened  her  eyes  with  a 
ghastly  stare,  and  closed  them  again  as  if  mechanically.  All  was  horror 
and  despair  —  no  help  —  no  resource  presented  itself:  they  hung  round  her, 
they  listened  to  her  groans  with  terror,  and  yet  they  were  the  only  signs  of 
life  that  disturbed  her  death-like  state.  At  last,  soon  after  the  dawn  of  day, 
she  became  convulsed,  her  pulse  fluttered,  and  blood  flowed  from  her 
wounded  arm  ;  in  about  an  hour  from  this  time  she  gave  birth,  to  a  dead 
child.  After  this  she  grew  calmer  and  fainter.  The  physician  arrived,  but 
she  was  past  mortal  cure, — she  never  opened  her  eyes  more,  nor  spoke, 
nor  gave  any  token  of  consciousness.  By  degrees  her  groans  ceased,  and 
she  faded  into  death  :  the  slender  manifestations  of  lingering  vitality  gradu- 
ally decreasing  till  all  was  stdl  and  cold.  After  an  hour  or  two  her  face 
resumed  its  loveliness,  pale  and  wasted  as  it  was  :  she  seemed  to  sleep, 
and  none  could  regret  that  repose  possessed  that  heart,  which  had  been 
alive  only  to  the  deadliest  throes  of  unhappy  passion.  Yet  Saviile  did  more 
than  regret  —  he  mourned  her  sincerely  and  deeply,  —  he  accused  himself 
of  hard-heartedness, —  he  remembered  what  she  was  when  he  had  first 
seen  her  ;  —  how  full  of  animation,  beauty,  and  love.  He  did  not  remember 
that  she  had  perished  the  victim  of  uncontrolled  passion  ;  he  felt  that  she 
was  his  victim.  He  would  have  given  worlds  to  restore  her  to  life  and  en- 
joyment. What  was  a  residence  in  England  —  the  promises  of  ambition 
—  the  pleasures  of  his  native  land  —  all  that  he  could  feel  or  know,  com- 
pared to  the  existence  of  one  so  young,  so  blessed  with  Heaven's  choicest 
gifts  of  mind  and  person.  She  was  his  victim,  and  he  could  never  forgive 
himself. 

For  his  father's  and  sisters'  sake  he  subdued  the  expression  of  his  grief, 
for  they  also  loved  Clorinda,  and  were  struck  with  sorrow  at  the  sudden 
catastrophe.  His  strong  mind,  also,  before  long,  mastered  the  false  view  he 
had  taken  of  the  cause  of  her  death.  He  lamented  her  deeply,  but  he  did  not 
give  way  to  unavailing  remorse,  which  was  founded  on  his  sensibility,  and 
not  on  any  just  cause  for  repentance.  He  turned  all  his  thoughts  to  repairing 
her  errors,  rather  than  his  own,  by  cherishing  her  child  with  redoubled 
fondness.  The  little  girl  was  too  young  to  feel  her  loss  ;  she  had  always 
loved  her  father,  and  now  she  clung  to  his  bosom  and  pressed  her  infant 
lips  to  his  cheek,  and  by  her  playfulness  and  caresses  repaid  him  for  the 
tenderness  that  he  lavished  on  her. 

After  some  weeks  spent  in  the  north  of  Italy  he  returned  to  England 
with  her.  Lord  Maristow  and  his  daughters  were  already  there,  and  had 
gone  to  Maristow  Castle.  Saviile  took  upjiis  abode  with  his  cousin  Vil- 
liers.  His  situation  was  new  and  strange.  He  found  himself  in  the  very 
abode  of  the  dreaded  Cornelia,  yet  she  was  awav,  unheard  of,  almost,  u 
34—2 


20b  LODORE. 

seemed,  forgotten.  Did  he  think  of  her  as  he  saw  the  traces  of  ly-gone 
scenes  around  ?  He  played  with  his  child  —  he  secluded  himself  among  his 
books  —  he  talked  with  Ethel  of  what  had  happened  since  their  parting,  and 
reproached  Villiers  bitterly  for  not  having  applied  to  him  in  his  distress.  But 
a  kind  of  spell  sealed  the  lips  of  each,  and  Lady  Lodore,  who  was  the  living 
spirit  of  the  scene  around — the  creator  of  its  peace  and  happiness  —  seemed 
to  have  passed  away  from  the  memory  of  all.  It  was  in  appearance  only. 
Not  an  hour,  not  a  minute  of  the  day  passed,  that  did  not  bring  her  idea  to 
their  minds,  and  Saville  and  Ethel  each  longed  for  the  word  to  be  uttered 
by  either,  wrhich  would  permit  them  to  give  expression  to  the  thoughts  that 
so  entirely  possessed  them. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

The  music 
Of  man's  fair  composition  best  accords, 
When  'tis  h  consort,  not  in  single  strains: 
My  heart  has  been  untuned  these  many  months, 
Wanting  her  presence,  in  whose  equal  love 
True  harmony  consisted. 

FORT). 

At  the  beginning  of  September  the  whole  party  assembled  at  Maristow 
Castle.  Even  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry  was  among  the  guests.  She  hac 
not  visited  Ethel  in  London,  because  she  would  not  enter  Lady  Lodore's 
house,  but  she  had  the  true  spinster's  desire  of  seeing  the  baby,  and  thus 
overcame  her  reluctance  to  quitting  Longfield  for  a  few  weeks.  Fanny 
Derham  also  accompanied  themj  unable  to  deny  Ethel's  affectionate  en- 
treaties. Fanny's  situation  had  been  beneficially  changed.  Sir  Gilbert 
Derham,  finding  that  his  granddaughter  associated  with  people  in  the 
world,  and  being  applied  to  by  Lord  Maristow,  was  induced  to  withdraw 
Mrs,  Derham  from  her  mean  Situation,  and  to  settle  a  small  fortune  on  each 
of  her  children.  Fanny  was  too  young,  and  too  wedded  to  her  platonic 
notions  of  the  supremacy  of  mind,  to  be  fully  aware  of  the  invaluable 
advantages  of  pecuniary  independence  for  a  woman.  She  fancied  that 
she  could  enter  on  the  career  —  the  only  career  permitted  her  sex  —  of 
servitude,  and  yet  possess  her  soul  in  freedom  and  power.  She  had  never, 
indeed,  thought  much  of  these  things :  life  was,  as  it  concerned  herself,  a 
system  of  words  only.  As  always  happens  to  the  young,  she  only  knew 
suffering  through  her  affections,  and  the  real  chain  of  life  —  its  necessities 
and  cares — and  the  sinister  influences  exercised  by  the  bad  passions  of 
our  fellow-creatures  —  had  not  yet  begun  to  fetter  her  aspiring  thoughts. 
Beautiful  in  her  freedom,  in  her  enthusiasm,  and  even  in  her  learning,  but, 
above  all,  in  the  lively  kindliness  of  her  heart,  she  excited  the  wonder  and 
commanded  the  affections  of  all.  Saville  had  never  seen  any  one  like  her 
—  she  brought  to  his  recollection  his  own  young  feelings  before  experience 
had  lifted  "  the  painted  veil  which  those  who  live  call  life,"'  or  passion  and 
sorrow  had  tamed  the  ardour  of  his  mind ;  he  looked  on  her  with  admira- 
tion, and  yet  with  compassion,  wondering  where  and  how  the  evil  spirit  of 
the  world  would  show  its  power  to  torment  and  conquer  the  free  soul  of 
the  disciple  of  wisdom. 

Yet  Saville's  own  mind  was  rather  rebuked  than  tamed  :  he  knew  what 
suffering  was,  yet  he  knew  also  how  to  endure  it,  and  to  turn  it  to  advan- 
tage, deriving  thence  lessons  of  fortitude,  of  forbearance,  and  even  of  hope. 
It  was  not,  however,  till  the  seal  on  his  lips  was  taken  off,  and  the  name  of 
Cornelia  mentioned,  that  he  came  aware  that  the  same  heart  warmed  his 


LODORE.  207 

bosom,  as  had  been  the  cause  at  once  of  such  rapture  and  misery  in  former 
times.  Yet  even  now  he  did  not  acknowledge  to  himself  that  he  still 
loved,  passionately,  devotedly  loved,  Lady  Lodore.  The  image  of  the  pale 
ClorirHa  stretched  on  the  pavement  —  his  victim  —  still  dwelt  in  his 
memory,  and  he  made  a  sacrifice  at.  her  tomb  of  every  living  feeling  of  his 
own.  He  fancied,  therefore,  that  he  spoke  coldly  of  Cornelia,  with  specula- 
tion only,  while,  in  fact,  at  the  very  mention  of  her  name  a  revulsion  took 
place  in  his  being  —his  eyes  brightened,  his  face  beamed  with  animation, 
his  very  figure  enlarged,  his  heart  was  on  fire  within  him.  Villiers  saw 
and  appreciated  these  tokens  of  passion  ;  but  Ethel  only  perceived  an  in- 
terest, in  her  mother,  shared  with  herself,  and  was  half  angry  that  he  made 
no  professions  of  the  constancy  of  his  attachment. 

Still,  day  after  day,  and  soon  all  day  long,  they  talked  of  Lady  Lodore. 
None  but  a  lover  and  a  daughter  could  have  adhered  so  pertinaciously  to  one 
subject ;  and  thus  Saville  and  Ethel  were  often  left  to  themselves,  or  joined 
only  by  Fanny.  Fanny  was  very  mysterious  and  alarming  in  what  she  said 
of  her  beautiful  and  interesting  favourite.  While  Ethel  lamented  her  mother's 
love  of  the  continent,  conjectured  concerning  her  return,  and  dwelt  on  the 
pleasures  of  their  future  intercourse,  Fanny  shook  her  head,  and  said,  "  It 
was  strange,  very  strange,  that  not  one  letter  had  yet  reached  them  from 
her."  She  was  asked  to  explain,  but  she  could  only  say,  that  when  she 
last  saw  Lady  Loaore,  she  was  impressed  by  the  idea  that  all  was  not  as 
it  seemed.  She  tried  to  appear  as  if  acting  according  to  the  ordinary 
routine  of  life,  and  yet  was  evidently  agitated  by  violent  and  irrepressible 
feeling.  Her  manner  she  had  herself  fancied  to  be  calm,  and  yet  it  betrayed 
a  wandering  of  thought,  a  fear  of  being  scrutinized,  manifested  in  her 
repetition  of  the  same  phrases,  and  in  the  earnestness  with  which  she  made 
assurances  concerning  matters  of  the  most  trivial  import.  This  was  all  that 
Fanny  could  say,  but  she  was  intimately  persuaded  of  the  correctness  of 
her  observation  and  lamented  that  she  had  not  inquired  further  and  discov- 
ered more.  "  For,"  she  said,  "  the  mystery,  whatever  it  is.  springs  from 
the  most  honourable  motives.  There  was  nothing  personal  nor  frivolous 
in  the  feelings  that  mastered  her  ;"  and  Fanny  feared  that  at  that  very  mo- 
ment she  was  sacrificing  herself  to  some  project  —  some  determination, 
which,  while  it  benefited  others,  was  injuring  herself.  Ethel,  with  all  her 
affection  for  her  mother,  was  not  persuaded  of  the  justice  of  these  suspi- 
cions, nor  could  be  brought  to  acknowledge  that  the  mystery  of  Lady  Lo- 
dore's  absence  was  induced  by  any  motives  as  strange  and  forcible  as  those 
suggested  by  Fanny  ;  but  believed  that  her  young  friend  was  carried  away 
by  her  own  imagination  and  high-flown  ideas.  Saville  was  operated  dif- 
ferently open.  He  became  uneasy,  thoughtful,  restless  :  a  thousand  times 
he  was  on  the  point  of  setting  out  to  find  a  clue  to  the  mystery,  and  to  dis 
cover  the  abode  of  the  runaway,  —  but  he  was  restrained.  It  it  usually 
supposed  that  women  are  always  under  the  influence  of  one  sentiment,  and 
if  Lady  Lodore  acted  under  the  direction  and  for  the  sake  of  another, 
wherefore  should  Saville  interfere  ?  what  right  had  he  to  investigate  her 
secrets,  and  disturb  her  arrangements  ? 

Several  months  passed.  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry  returned  to  Longfield, 
and  still  the  mystery  concerning  Ethel's  mother  continued,  and  the  wonder 
increased.  Soon  after  Christmas  Mr.  Gayland,  who  was  also  Lord  Maris- 
tow's  solicitor,  came  down  to  the  castle  for  a  few  days.  He  made  inqui- 
ries concerning  Lady  Lodore,  and  was  somewhat  surprised  at  her  strange 
disappearance  and  protracted  absence.  He  asked  several  questions,  and 
seemed  to  form  conclusions  in  his  own  mind  ;  he  excited  the  curiositv  ol 
all,  yet  restrained  himself  from  satisfying  it;  he  was  evidently  disquieted  by 
her  unbroken  silence,  yet  feared  to  betray  the  origin  of  his  uneasiness. 

While  he  remained  curiosity  was  dominant :  when  he  went  he  requested 


20S  LODORE. 

Villiers  to  be  good  enough,  to  let  him  know  if  any  thing  should  be  heaid  of 
Lady  Lodore.  He  asked  this  more  than  once,  and  required  an  absolute 
promise.  After  his  departure,  his  questions,  his  manner,  and  his  last  words 
recurred,  exciting  even  mere  surprise  than  when  he  had  been  present, 
Fanny  brought  forward  all  he  said  to  suppoit  her  own  conjectures  ;  a  shad- 
ow of  disquiet  crossed  Ethel's  mind  ;  she  asked  Villiers  to  take  some  steps 
to  discover  where  .her  mother  was,  and  on  his  refusal,  argued  earnestly, 
though  vainly,  to  persuade  him  to  comply.  Villiers  was  actuated  by  the 
common-place  maxim  of  not  interfering  with  the  actions  and  projects  of 
others.  "Lady  Lodore  is  not  a  child,''  he  said  ;  "  she  knows  what  she  is 
about  —  has  she  not  always  avoided  you,  Ethel  ?  Why  press  yourself  inop- 
portunely upon  her?" 

But  Ethel  was  not  now  to  be  convinced  by  the  repetition  of  these  argu- 
ments. She  urged  her  mother's  kindness  and  sacrifice;  her  having  given 
up  her  home  to  them  ;  her.house  still  unclaimed  by  hei-,  still  at  their  dispo- 
sal, and  which  contained  so  many  things  which  must  have  been  endeared 
by  long  use  and  habit,  and  the  relinquishing  of  which  showed  something 
extraordinary  in  her  motives.  This  was  a  woman  s  feeling,  and  made  little 
impression  on  Villiers  —  he  was  willing  to  praise  and  to  thank  Lady  Lo- 
dore for  her  generosity  and  kindness,  but  he  suspected  nothing  beyond  hei 
acknowledged  acts.  « 

Saville  heard  this  disquisition  ;  he  wished  Villiers  to  be  convinced  — he 
was  persuaded  that  Ethel  was  right  —  he  was  angry  at  his  cousin's  obsti- 
nacy —  he  was  miserable  at  the  idea  that  Cornelia  should  feel  herself  treated 
with  neglect  —  that  she  should  need  protection  and  not  have  it  —  that^shs 
should  be.  alone,  and  not  find  assistance  proffered,  urged  upon  her.  He 
mounted  his  horse  and  took  a  solitary  ride,  meditating  on  these  things  — 
his  imagination  became  heated,  his  soul  on  fire.  He  pictured  Lady  Lodore 
in  solitude  and  desertion,  and  his  heart  boiled  within  him.  Was  she  sick, 
and  none  near  her?  —  was  she  dead,  and  her  grave  unvisited  and  unknown  ? 
A  lover's  fancy  is  as  creative  as  a  poet  s,  and  when  once  it  takes  hold  of 
any  idea,  it  clings  to  it  tenaciously.  If  it  is  thus  even  with  ordinary  minds, 
how  much  more  with  Saville,  with  all  the  energy  which  was  his  character- 
istic, and  the  latent  fire  of  love  burning  in  his  heart.  His  resolution  was 
sudden,  and  acted  on  at  once.  He  turned  his  horse's  head  towards  Lon- 
don. On  reaching  the  nearest  town,  he  ordered  a  chaise  and  four  post 
horses.  He  wrote  a  few  hurried  lines  announcing  an  absence  of  two  or 
three  days,  and  with  the  rapidity  that  always  attended  the  conception  of  his 
purposes  and  their  execution,  the  next  morning,  having  travelled  all  night, 
he  was  in  Mr.  Gayland  s  office,  questioning  that  gentleman  concerning 
Lady  Lodore,  and  seeking  from  him  all  the  light  he  could  throw  upon  her 
long-continued  and  mysterious  absence. 

Mr.  Gayland  had  promised  Lady  Lodore  not  to  reveal  her  secret  to  Mr. 
or  Mrs.  Villiers  ;  but  he  felt  himself  free  to  communicate  it  to  any  other 
person.  He  was  very  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  burden  and  even  the  respon- 
sibility of  being  her  sole  confidant.  He  related  all  he  knew  to  Saville,  and 
the  truth  flashed  on  the  lover's  mind.  His  imagination  could  not  dupe  him 
—  he  could  conceive,  and  therefore  believe  in  her  generosity,  her  magna- 
nimity. He  had  before,  in  some  degree,  divined  the  greatness  of  mind  ol 
which  Lady  Lodore  was  capable  ;  though,  as  far  as  regarded  himself,  her 
pride,  and  his  modesty,  had  deceived  him.  ]Now  he  became  at  once  aware 
that  Cornelia  had  beggared  herself  for  Ethel's  sake.  She  had  disposed  of 
her  jointure,  given  up  the  residue  of  her  income,  and  wandered  away,  poor 
and  alone,  to  avoid  the  discovery  of  the  extent  and  consequences  of  her 
sacrifices.  Saville  left  Mr.  Gaylands  office  with  a  bursting  and  a  burning 
heart.  At  once  he  paid  a  warm  tribute  of  admiration  to  her  virtues,  and 
acknowledged  to  himself  his  own  passionate  love.     It  became  a  duty,  in  his 


LODORE.  209 

eyes,  to  respect,  revere,  adore  one  so  generous  and  noble.  He  was  proud 
of  the  selection  his  heart  had  made,  and  of  his  constancy.  "My  own 
Cornelia,"  such  was  his  reverie,  "  how  express  your  merit  and  the  admira- 
tion it  deserves! — other  people  talk  of  generosity,  and  friendship,  and 
parental  affection  —  but  you  manifest  a  visible  image  of  these  things  ;  and 
while  others  theorize,  you  imbody  in  your  actions  all  that  can  be  imagined 
of  glorious  and  an  relic."  He  congratulated  himself  on  being  able  to  return 
to  the  genuine  sentiments  of  his  heart,  and  in  finding  reality  give  sanction 
to  the  idolatry  of  his  soul. 

He  longed  to  pour  out  his  feelings  at  her  feet,  and  to  plead  the  cause  of 
his  fidelity  ani  affection,  to  read  in  her  eyes  whether  she  would  see  a 
reward  for  his  sufferings  in  his  attachment.  Where  was  she,  to  receive  his 
protestations  and  vows  ?  He  half  forgot,  in  the  fervour  of  his  feelings, 
that  he  knew  not  whither  she  had  retreated,  nor  possessed  any  clue  where- 
by to  find  her.  He  returned  to  Mr.  Grayland  to  inquire  from  him  ;  but  he 
could  tell  nothing  ;  he  went  to  her  house  and  questioned  the  servants,  they 
remembered  nothing;  at  last  he  found  her  maid,  and  learned  from  her 
where  she  was  accustomed  to  hire  her  post-horses-;  this  was  all  the  infor- 
mation at  which  he  could  arrive. 

Going  to  Newman's,  with  some  difficulty  he  found  the  post-boy,  who 
remembered  driving  her.  By  his  means  he  traced  her  to  Reading,  but 
here  all  clue  was  lost.  The  inn  to  which  she  had  gone  had  passed  into 
other  hands,  and  no  one  knew  any  thing  about  the  arrivals  and  departures 
of  the  preceding  summer.  He  made  various  perquisitions,  and  lighted  by 
chance  on  the  servant  she  had  taken  with  her  to  Reading,  and  there  dis- 
missed. Prom  what  he  said,  and  a  variety  of  other  circumstances,  he 
became  convinced  that  she  had  gone  abroad,  He  searched  the  foreign 
pa^po-t  office,  and  found  that  one  had  been  taken  out  at  the  French  Am- 
bassxdor's  in  the  month  of  April,  by  a  Mrs.  Fitzhenry.  He  persuaded 
himelf  that  this  was  proof  that  she  had  goneto  Paris.  It  was  mostprob- 
bible  that  impoverished  as  she  was,  and  desirous  of  concealing  her  altered 
situation,  that  she  should,  as  Lodore  had  formerly  done,  dismiss  a  title 
which  wouH  at  once  encumber  and  betray  her.  He  immediately  resolved 
to  cross  to  France.  And  yet  for  a  moment  he  hesitated,  and  reflected  on 
what  it  was  best  to  do. 

He  had  given  no  intimation  of  his  proceedings  to  his  cousin,  and  they 
were  unaware  that  his  journey  was  connected  with  Lady  Lodore.  He  had 
a  lover's  wish  to  find  her  himself— himself  to  be  the  only  source  of  conso- 
lation —  the  only  mediator  to  restore  her  to  her  daughter  and  to  happiness. 
B  it  his  fruitless  attempts  at  discovery  made  him  see  that  his  wishes  were 
not  to  be  effected  easily.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  communicate  all  he 
kn^w  to  his  cousins,  and  even  to  ensure  their  assistance  in  his  researches, 
Befo-e  going  abroad,  therefore,  he  returned  to  Maristow  Castle. 

He  arrived  late  in  the  evening.  Lord  Maristow  and  his  daughters  were 
gone  out  to  dinner.  The  three  persons  whom  Saville  especially  wished  to 
see  alone  occupied  the  drawing-room.  Edward  was  writing  to  his  father, 
who  had  advised  him,  now  that  he  had  a  son,  entirely  to  cut  off  the  entail, 
and  mortgage  a  great  part  of  the  property  :  it  was  a  distasteful  task  to 
answer  the  suggestions  of  unprincipled  selfishness.  While  he  was  thus 
occupied,  Ethel  had  taken  from  her  desk  her  mother's  last  letter,  and  was 
reading  it  again  and  again,  weighing  every  syllable,  and  endeavouring  to 
discover  a  hidden  meaning.  She  went  over  to  the  sofa  on  which  Fanny 
wis  sitting,  to  communicate  to  her  a  new  idea  that»had  struck  her.  The 
studious  girl  had  got  into  a  corner  with  her  Cicero,  and  was  reading  the 
Tusculan  Questions,  which  she  readily  laid  aside  to  enter  on  a  suhject  so 
deeplv  interesting.  Saville  opened  the  door,  and  appeared  most  unex 
pectedlv  among  them.  His  manner  was  eager  and  abrupt,  and  the  first 
2* 


210  LODORE. 

words  he  uttered  were,  "  I  am  come  to  disturb  you  all,  and  to  beg  of  you  to 
return  to  London  :  — no  time  must  be  lost  —  can  you  go  to-morrow?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Villiers,  "if  you  wish  it." 

«« But  why  ?"  asked  Ethel. 

"  You  have  found  Lady  Lodore !"  exclaimed  Fanny. 

"  You  are  dreaming,  Fanny,"  said  Ethel ;  "  you  see  Horace  shakes  his 
head.  But  if  we  go  to-morrow,  yet  rest  to-night.  You  are  fatigued,  pale, 
anl  ill,  Horace  —  you  have  been  exerting  yourself  too  much  —  explain  your 
wishes,  but  take  repose  and  refreshment." 

Saville  was  in  too  excited  a  state  to  think  of  either.  He  repelled  Ethel's 
feminine  offers,  till  he  had  related  his  story.  His  listeners  heard  him  with 
amazement.  Villiers's  cheeks  glowed  with  shame,  partly  at  the  injustice 
of  his  former  conduct  —  partly  at  being  the  object  of  so  much  sacrifice  and 
beneficence  on  the  part  of  his  mother-in-law.  Fanny's  colour  also  height- 
ened ;  she  clasped  her  nands  in  delight,  mingling  various  exclamations  with 
Savdle's  story.  "Did  I  not  say  so?  I  was  sure  of  it.  If  you  had  seen  her 
when  1  did,  on  the  day  of  her  going  away,  you  would  have  been  as  certain 
as  I."  Ethel  wept  in  silence,  her  heart  was  touched  to  the  core,  "the 
remorse  of  love"  awakened  in  it.  How  cold  and  ungrateful  had  been  all 
her  actions :  engrossed  by  her  love  for  her  husband  she  had  bestowed  nc 
sympathy,  made  no  demonstrations  towards  her  mother.  Trie  false  shame 
and  Edward's  oft-repeated  arguments  which  had  kept  her  back,  vanished 
from  her  mind.  She  reproached  herself  bitterly  for  lukewarmness  and 
neglect;  she  yearrjed  to  show  her  repentance  —  to  seek  forgiveness  —  tc 
express,  however  feebly,  her  sense  of  her  mother's  angelic  goodness.  Her 
tears  flowed  to  think  of  these  things,  and  that  her  mother  was  away,  poor 
and  alone,  believing  herself  wronged  in  all  their  thoughts,  resenting  perhaps 
their  unkindness,  mourning  over  the  ingratitude  of  her  child. 

When  the  first  burst  of  feeling  was  over,  they  discussed  their  future 
proceedings.  Saville  communicated  his  discoveries  and  his  plan  of  ciossing 
to  France.  Villiers  was  as#ager  as  his  cousin  to  exert  himself  actively  in 
the  pursuit.  His  ingenuous  and  feeling  mind  was  struck  by  his  injustice, 
and  he  was  earnest  in  his  wish  to  atone  for  the  past,  and  to  recompense 
her,  if  possible,  for  her  sacrifices.  As  everyone  is  apt  to  do  with  regard  to 
the  ideas  of  others,  he  was  not  satisfied  with  his  cousin's  effoits  or  conclu- 
sions ;  he  thought  more  questions  might  be  asked  —  more  learned  at  the 
inns  on  the  route  which  Lady  Lodore  had  taken.  The  passport  Saville 
had  imagined  to  be  hers  was  taken  out  for  Dover.  Reading  was  far  removed 
from  any  road  to  Kent.  They  argued  this.  Horatio  was  not  convinced  ; 
but  while  he  was  bent  on  proceeding  to  Paris,  Edward  resolved  to  visit 
Reading  —  to  examine  the  neighbourhood  —  to  requestion  the  servants  — 
to  put  on  foot  a  system  of  inquiry  which  must  in  the  end  assure  them 
whether  she  was  still  in  the  kingdom.  It  was  at  once  resolved  that  on  the 
morrow  they  should  go  to  London. 

Thither  they  accordingly  went.  They  repaired  to  Lady  Lodore's  house. 
Saville  on  the  next  morning  departed  for  Fi  ance,  and  a  letter  soon  reached 
them  from  him,  saying,  that  he  felt  persuaded  that  the  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  was 
Lady  Lodore,  and  that  he  should  pursue  his  way  with  all  speed  to  Paris. 
It  appeared,  that  the  lady  in  question  had  crossed  to  Calais  on  the  eleventh 
of  June,  and  intimated  her  design  of  going  to  the  Bagneres  de  Bigorre  among 
the  Pyrennees  passing;  through  Paris  on  her  way.  The  mention  of  the 
Bagneres  de  Bisorre  clinched  Saville's  suspicions  —  it  was  such  a  place  as 
one  in  Lady  Lodore's  gpsition  mi°;ht  select  for  her  abode  —  distant,  secluded, 
situated  in  sublime  ani  beautiful  scenery,  singularly  cheap,  and  seldom 
visited  by  strangers  ;  yet  the  annual  resort  of  the  French  from  Bourdeaux 
and  Lyons,  civilized  what  otherwise  had  been  too  rude  and  wild  for  an 
English  lady.     It  was  a  long  journey  thither  —  the  less  wonder  that  nothing 


LODORE.  211 

was  heard,  or  seen,  or  surmised  concerning  the  absentee  by  her  numerous 
acquaintances,  many  of  whom  were  scattered  on  the  continent.  Saville 
represented  all  th>se  thins;,?,  and  expressed  his  conviction  that  he  should 
find  her.  His  letter  was  brief,  for  he  was  hurried,  and  he  felt  that  it  were 
better  to  say  nothing  than  to  express  imperfectly  the  conflicting  emotions 
alive  in  his  heart.  "  My  life  seems  a  dream,"  he  said  at  the  conclusion  of 
his  letter  ;  "  a  long  painful  dream,  since  last  I  saw  her.  I  awake,  she  is  not 
here  ;  I  go  to  seek  her —  my  actions  have  that  single  scope  —  my  thoughts 
tend  to  that  aim  only;  I  go  to  find  her — to  restore  her  to  Ethel.  If  I  suc- 
ceed in  bestowing  this  happiness  on  her,  I  shall  have  my  reward,  and,  what- 
ever happens,  no  selfish  regret  shall  tarnish  my  delight." 

He  urged  Villiers,  meanwhile,  not  to  rely  too  entirely  on  the  conviction 
so  strong  in  himself,  but  to  pursue  his  plan  of  discovery  with  vigour.  Vil- 
liers needed  no  spur.  His  eagerness  was  fully  alive ;  he  could  not  rest  till 
he  had  rescued  his  mother-in-law  from  solitude  and  obscurity.  He  visited 
Reading  ;  he  extended  his  inquiries  to  Newbury:  here  more  light  broke 
in  on  his  researches.  He  heard  of  Lady  Lodore's  illness  —  of  her  having 
resided  for  several  months  at  a  villa  in  the  neighbourhood,  while  slowly  re- 
covering from  a  fever  by  which  for  a  longtime  her  life  had  been  endangered. 
He  heard  also  of  her  departure,  her  return  to  London.  Then  again  all  was 
obscurity.  The  innkeepers  and  letters  of  post-horses  in  London,  were  all 
visited  in  vain  —  the  mystery  became  as  impenetrable  as  ever.  It  seemed 
most  probable  that  she  was  living  in  some  obscure  part  of  the  metropolis  — 
Ethd's  heart  sunk  within  her  at  the  thought. 

Edward  wrote  to  Saville  to  communicate  this  intelligence,  which  put  an 
end  to  the  idea  of  her  being  in  France  — but  he  was  already  gone  on  to 
Baimeres.  He  himself  perambulated  London  and  its  outskirts,  but  all  in 
vain.  The  very  thought  that  she  should  be  residing  in  a  place  so  sad,  nay, 
so  humiliatinq;,  without,  one  gilding  circumstance  to  solace  poverty  and  ob- 
scurity, was  unspeakably  painful  both  to  Villiers  and  his  wife.  Ethel  thought 
of  her  own  abode  in  Duke-street  during  her  husband's  absence,  and  how 
miserable  and  forlorn  it  had  been  —  she  now  wept  bitterly,  over  her  mother's 
fate  ;  even  Fanny's  philosophy  could  not  afford  consolation  for  these  ideas. 

An  accident,  however,  gave  a  new  turn  to  their  conjectures.  In  the 
drawer  of  a  work-table,  Ethel  found  an  advertisement  cut  out  of  a  newspaper, 
setting  firth  the  rjerits  of  a  cottage  to  be  let  near  Rhyaider  Gowy  in  Rad- 
norshire, and  with  this,  a  letter  from  the  agent  at  Rhyaider,  dated  the  13th 
of  VLav,  in  answer  to  inquiries  concerning  the  rent  and  particulars.  The 
letter  intimated,  that  if  the  account  gave  satisfaction,  the  writer  would  get 
the  cottage  prepared  for  the  tenant  immediately,  and  the  lady  might  take 
possession  at  the  time  mentioned,  on  the  1st  of  June.  The  day  after  find- 
in  <*  this  lQtter,  Villiers  set  out  for  Wales.  ^ 

But  first  he  persuaded  Ethel  to  spend  the  interval  of  his  absence  at  Long 
fi  dd.  She  had  latelv  fretted  much  concerning  her  mother,  and  .as  she  was 
stdl  nurshiT  her  baby,  Edward  became  uneasy  at  her  pale  cheeks  and 
thinness.  Ethel  was  anxious  to  preserve  her  health  for  her  child  ;  she  felt 
that  her  uneasiness  and  pining  would  be  lessened  by  a  removal  into  the 
country.  She  was  useless  in  London,  and  there  was  something  in  her  res- 
idence in  her  mother's  house  —  in  the  aspect  of  the  streets  —  in  the  mem- 
orv  of  what  she  had  suffered  there,  and  the  fear  that  Lady  Lodore  was 
enduring  a  worse  repetition  of  the  same  evils,  that  agitated  and  preyed 
upon  her.  Her  aunt  had  pressed  her  very  much  to  come  and  see  her,  and 
she  wrote  to  sav  that  she  might  be  expected  on  the  following  day.  She 
bade  adieu  to  Villiers  with  more  of  hope  with  regard  to  his  success  than 
she  had  formerly  felt.  She  became  half  convinced  that  her  mother  was 
not  in  London.  Fanny  supported  her  in  these  ideas  ;  they  talked  continu- 
ally of  all  the  v  knew  —  of  the  illness  of  Lady  Lodore  —  of  her  firmnesg 


212  LODORE. 

of  purpose  in  not  sending  for  her  daughter,  or  altering  her  plans  in  con- 
sequence ;  they  comforted  themselves  that  the  air  of  Wales  would  re- 
store her  health,  and  the  beauty  of  the  scenery  and  the  freedom  of  nature 
soothe  her  mind.  They  were  full  of  hope  —  of  more  —  of  expectation. 
Ethel,  indeed,  had  at  one  time  proposed  accompanying  her  husband,  but 
she  yielded  to  his  entreaties,  and  to  the  fear  suggested,  that  she  might  in- 
jure her  child's  health.  Villiers  s  motions  would  be  more  prompt  without 
her.  They  separated.  Ethel  wrote  to  Saville  a  letter  to  find  him  at  Paris, 
containing  an  account  of  their  new  discoveries,  and  then  prepared  for  her 
journey  to  Essex  with  Fanny,  her  baby,  and  the  beautiful  little  Clorinda  Sa- 
ville, who  had  been  left  under  her  care,  on  the  following  day. 


CHAPTER    LII. 

I  am  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delights 
To  season  my  Friends  with  personal  talk,  — 
Of  Friends  who  live  within  an  easy  walk, 
Or  Neighbours,  daily,  weekly  in  my  sight ; 
And,  for  my  chance  acquaintance,  Ladies  bright. 
Sons,  Mothers,  Maidens,  withering  on  the  stalk, 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  Forms,  with  chalk 
Painted  on  rich  men's  floors,  for  one  feastnicht. 

Wordsworth. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry  returned  to  Longfield  from  Maristow  Cas- 
tle at  the  end  of  the  month  of  November.  She  gladly  came  back,  in  all  the 
dingriness  and  bleakness  of  that  dismal  season,  to  her  beloved  seclusion 
at  Longfield.  The  weather  was  dreary,  a  black  frost  invested  every  thing 
with  its  icy  chains,  the  landscape  looked  disconsolate,  and  now  arid  then 
wintry  blasts  brought  on  snow-storms,  and  howled  loudly  through  the  long 
dark  nights.  The  amiable  spinster  drew  her  chair  close  to  the  fire  ;  with 
half-shut  eyes  she  contemplated  the  glowing  embers,  and  recalled  many 
past  winters  just  like  this,  when  Lodore  was  alive  and  in  America  ;  or, 
diving  yet  deeper  into  memory,  when  the  honoured  chair  she  now  occu- 
pied had  been  dignified  by  her  father,  and  she  had  tried  to  soothe  his  quer- 
ulous complaints  on  the  continued  absence  of  her  brother  Henry.  When, 
instead  of  these  familiar  thoughts,  the  novel  ones  of  EtViel  and  Villers 
intruded  themselves,  she  rubbed  her  eyes  to  be  quite  sure  that  she  di>'  not 
dream.  It  was  a  lamentable  change;  and  who  the  cause?  Even  s.ne 
whose  absence  had  been,  she  felt,  wickedly  lamented  at  Maristow  Casde, 
Cornelia  Santarre —  she^who  in  an  evil  hour  had  become  Lady  Lodore, 
and  who  would  before  God  answer  for  the  disasters  and  untimely  death 
of  her  ill-fated  husband. 

With  any  but  Mrs,  Fitzhenry,  such  accusations  had,  after  the  softening 
process  of  time,  been  changed  to  an  admission,  that,  despite  her  errors, 
Lady  Lodore  had  rather  been  misled  and  mistaken,  than  heinously  faulty  ; 
and  her  last  act,  in  sacrificing  so  much  to  her  daughter,  although  the  extent 
of  her  sacrifice  was  unknown  to  her  sister-in-law,  had  cancelled  her  former 
delinquencies.  But  the  prejudiced  old  lady  was  not  so  easily  mollified  ; 
she  was  harsh  alone  towards  her,  but  all  the  gall  of  her  nature  was  collected 
and  expended  on  the  head  of  her  brother's  widow.  Probably  an  instinctive 
feeling  of  her  unreasonableness  made  her  more  violent.  Her  laneua^e  was 
bitter  whenever  she  alluded  to  her  —  she  rejoiced  at  her  absence,  and  in- 
stead of  entering  into  Ethel's  gratitude  and  impatience,  she  fervently  prayed 
that  she  might,  never  appear  on  the  scene  again. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry  was  less  of  a  gossip  than  any  maiden  lady  who 


LODORE.  218 

had  ever  lived  singly  in  the  centre  of  a  little  village.  Her  heart  was  full 
of  the  dead  and  the  absent  —  of  past  events,  and  their  long  train  ©f  con- 
sequonces  ;  so  that  the  history  of  the  inhabitants  of  her  village  possessed  no 
char  n  for  her.  If  any  one  among  them  suffered  from  misfor  une,  she  en- 
deavoured to  relieve  them,  and  if  any  died,  she  lamented,  moralized  on  the 
passage  of  time,  and  talked  of  Lo  lore's  death  ;  but  the  scandal,  the  mar- 
riages, the  feuds,  and  wonderful  things  that  came  to  pass  at  LongnYld, 
appeared  childish  and  contemptible,  the  flickering  of  earth-born  tapers,  com- 
pared to  the  splendour,  the  obscuration,  and  final  setting  of  the  celestial 
luminary  which  had  been  the  pole-star  of  her  life. 

It  was  from  this  reason  that  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  had  not  heard  of  the  Lady 
who  lodged  at  Dame  Nixon's  cottage,  in  the  Vale  of  Bewling,  till  the  time, 
when,  after  having  exhausted  the  curiosity  of  Longfield,  she  was  almost 
forgotten.  The  Lady,  she  was  known  by  no  other  name,  had  arrived  in 
the  town  during  Mrs.  Fitzhenry's  visit  to  Maristow  Castle.  She  had  ar- 
rived in  her  own  chariot,  unattended  by  any  servant ;  the  following  day 
she  had  taken  up  her  abode  at  Dame  Nixon's  cottage,  saying,  that  she  was 
only  going  to  stay  a  week  :  she  had  continued  there  for  more  than  three 
months. 

Dame  Nixon's  cottage  was  situated  about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Long- 
field.  It  stood  alone  in  a  little  hollow  embowered  by  trees  ;  the  ground 
behind  rose  to  a  slight  upland,  and  a  nil  trickled  through  the  garden.  You 
got  to  it  by  a  by-path,  which  no  wheeled  vehicle  could  traverse,  though  a 
horse  might,  and  it  was  indeed  the  very  dingle  and  cottage  which  Ethel 
had  praised  during  her  visit  into  Essex  in  the  preceding  year.  The  silence 
and  seclusion  were  in  summer  tranquillizing  and  beautiful ;  in  winter  sad 
and  drear;  the  fields  were  swampy  in  wet  weather,  and  in  snow  and  frost 
it  seemed  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  Dame  Nixon  and  her  grand- 
daughter lived  there  alone.  The  girl  had  been  engaged  to  be  married. 
Her  lover  jilted  her,  and  wedded  a  richer  bride.  The  story  is  so  old,  that  it 
is  to  be  wondered  that  women  have  not  ceased  to  lament  so  common  an 
occurrence.  Poor  Margaret  was,  on  the  contrary,  struck  to  the  heart  — 
she  despised  herself  for  being;  unable  to  preserve  her  lover's  affections,  rather 
than  the  deceiver  for  his  infidelity.  She  neglected  her  personal  appearance, 
nor  ever,  showed  herself  among  her  former  companions,  except  to  support 
hpr  grandmother  to  church.  Her  false  lover  sat  in  the  adjoining  pew. 
She  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  prayer-book  during  the  service,  and  on  the  ground 
as  she  went  away.  She  did  not  wish  him  to  see  the  change  which  his 
faithlessness  had  wrought,  for  surely  it  would  arflict  him.  Once  there  had 
not  bloomed  a  fresher  or  gayer  rose  in  the  fields  of  Essex  —  now  she  had 
grown *thin  and  pale —  her  young  light  step  had  become  slow  and  heavy  — 
sickness  and  sorrow  made  her  eyes  hollow,  and  her  cheeks  sunken.  She 
avoided  every  one,  devoting  he/self  to  attendance  on  her  grandmother. 
Da  ne  "Nixon  was  nearly  doting.  Life  was  ebbing  fast  from  her  old  frame  ; 
her  best  pleasure  was  to  sun  herself  in  the  garden  in  summer,  or  to  bask 
before  the  winter's  fire.  While  enjoying  these  delights,  her  dimmed  eyes 
brightened,  and  a  smile  wreathed  her  withered  lips  ;  she  said,  "Ah!  this 
is  comfortable  ;"  while  her  broken-hearted  grandchild  envied  a  state  of 
b^ing  which  could  content  itself  with  mere  animal  enjoyment.  They  were 
very  poor.  Margaret  had  to  work  hard  ;  but  the  thoughts  of  the  head,  or, 
at  least,  the  feelings  of  the  heart,  need  not  wait  on  the  labour  of  the  hands. 
The  Sunday  visit  to  church  kept  alive  her  pain  ;  her  very  pravers  were 
bitter,  breathed  close  to  the  deceiver  and  her  who  had  usurped  her  happi- 
ness :  the  memory  and  anticipation  haunted  her  through  the  week  ;  she 
v/as  often  blinded  by  tears  as  she  patiently  pursued  her  household  duties, 
or  her  toil  in  their  little  garden.     Her  hands  were  hardened  with  work,  her 


214  LO$ORE. 

throat,  her  face  sunburnt ;  but  exercise  and  occupation  dio  not  prevent  her 
from  wasting  away,  or  her  cheek  from  becoming  sunk  and  v  an.  • 

Dame  Nixon  s  cottage  was  poor  but  roomy  :  some  years  before,  a  gen- 
tleman from  London  had,  in  a  freak,  hired  two  rooms  in  it,  and  furnished 
them.  Since  then,  she  had  sometimes  let  them,  and  now  they  weie  occu- 
pied by  the  stranger  lady.  At  first  all  three  of  the  inhabitants  appeared 
each  Sunday  at  church.  The  Lady  was  dressed  in  spotless  and  simple 
white,  and  so  closely  veiled,  that  no  one  could  see  her  face ;  of  course  she 
was  beautiful.  Soon  after  Mrs.  Elizabeth's  return  from  Maristow  Castl  ,  it 
was  discovered  that  tirst  the  lady  stayed  away,  and  soon,  that  the  whole 
party  absented  themselves  on  Sunday  ;  and  as  this  defalcation  demanded 
inquiry,  it  was  discovered  that  a  pony  chaise  took  them  three  miles  off'  to  the 
church  of  the  nearest  village.  This  was  a  singular  and  yet  a  beneficial 
change.  The  false  swain  must  rejoice  at  losing  sight  of  the  memento  ol 
his  sin,  and  Margaret  would  certainly  pray  with  a  freer  heart,  when  she  no 
longer  shrunk  from  his  gaze  and  that  of  his  wife. 

It  was  not  until  the  end  of  January  that  Mrs.  Elizabeth  heard  of  the 
Lady  ;  it  was  not  till  the  beginning  of  February  that  she"  asked  a  single 
question  about  her. 

In  January,  passing  the  inn-yard,  the  curate's  wife,  who  was  walking 
with  her,  said,  "  There  is  the  chariot  belonging  to  the  Lady  who  lodges  at 
Dame  Nixon's  cottage.    I  wonder  who  she  is.     The  arms  are  painted  out." 

"  Ah,  Dame  Nixon  has  a  lodger  then  ;  that  is  a  good  thing,  it  will  help 
her  through  the  winter.  I  have  not  seen  her  or  her  daughter  at  church 
lately." 

"No,"  replied  the  other,  "  they  go  now  to  Bewling  church." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  ;  "'it  is  much  better  for  poor 
Margaret  not  to  come  here." 

The  conversation  went  on,  and  the  Lady  was  alluded  to,  but  no  ques- 
tions were  asked  or  curiosity  excited.  In  February  she  heard  from  the 
doctor  s  wife,  that  the  doctor  had  been  to  the  cottage,  and  that  the  Lady 
was  indisposed.  She  heard  at  the  same  time  that  this  Lady  had  refused  to 
receive  the  visits  of  the  curate's  lady  and  the  doctor  s  lady  —  excusing  her- 
self, that  she  was  going  to  leave  Essex  immediately.  This  had  happened 
two  months  before.  On  hearing  of  her  illness,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  thought  of 
calling  on  her,  but  this  stopped  her.  "  It  is  very  odd,"  said  the  doctor's 
wife  ;  "  she  came  in  her  own  carriage,  and  yet  has  no  servants.  She  lives 
in  as  poor  a  way  as  can  be,  down  in  the  cottage,  yet  my  husband  says  she 
is  more  like  the  Glueen  of  England  in  her  looks  and  ways  than  any  one  he 
ever  saw."  . 

"  Like  the  Glueen  of  England  ?"  said  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  ;  "  what  queen  ?  — 
Glueen  Charlotte?"  who  had  been  the  queen  of  the  greater  pait  of  the  good 
lady's  life. 

'•  She  is  as  young  and  beautiful  as  an  angel,"  said  the  other,  half  angry  ; 
"it  is  very  mysterious.  She  did  not  look  downcast  like,  as  if  any  thing 
was  wrong,  but  was  as  cheerful  and  condescending  as  could  be.  'Conde- 
scending, doctor,'  said  I,  for  my  husband  used  the  word  ;  '  you  don  t  want 
condescension  from  a  poor  body  lodging  at  Dame  Nixon's.' — 'A  poor 
body!'  said  he,  in  a  huff,  'she  is  more  of  a  lady,  indeed  more  like  the 
Glueen  of  England  than  any  rich  body  you  ever  saw.'  And  what  is  odd, 
no  one  knOws  her  name  —  Dame  Nixon  and  Margaret  always  call  her  Lady 
—  the  very  marks  are  picked  out  from  her  pocket  handkerchiefs.  Yet  I  did 
hear  that  there  was  a  coronet  plain  to  be  seen  on  one  —  a  thing  impossible 
unless  she  was  a  poor  castaway  ;  and  the  doctor  says  he'd  lay  his  life  that 
she  was  nothing  of  that.  He  must  know  her  name  when  he  makes  out  her 
bill,  and  I  told  him  to  ask  it  plump,  but  he  puts  off,  and  puts  off,  till  I  am 
out  of  all  patience." 


LODORE*  215 

A  misty  confused  sense  of  discomfort  stole  over  Mrs.  Elizabeth  when  she 
heard  of  the  coronet  in  the  corner  of  the  pocket  handkerchief  but  it  passed 
away  without  suggesting  any  distinct  idea  to  her  mind.  Nor  did  she  feel 
curiosity  about  the  stranger  —  she  was  too  much  accustomed  to  the  aston- 
ish nent,  the  conjectures,  the  gossip  of  Lonj;field,  to  suppose  that  there  was 
any  ieal  foundation  for  surprise,  because  its  wonder  loving  inhabitants 
cn.jse  to  build  up  a  mystery  out  of  eve  y  common  occurrence  of  life. 

This  absence  of  inquisitiveness  must  long  have  kept  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  in 
ignora  ice  of  who  her  neighbour  was,  and  the  inhabitants  of  Longneid 
would  probably  have  discovered  it  before  her,  had  not  the  truth  been  revealed 
even  before  she  entertained  a  suspicion  that  there  was  any  secret  to  be  found 
out. 

u  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  her  maid  to  her  one  evening,  as  she 
was  superintending  the  couchee  of  the  worthy  spinster,  "I  think  you  ought 
to k  low  ;  though  I  am  afraid  you  may  be  angry — " 

The  woman  hesitated  ;  her  mistres-s  encouraged  her.  "  If  it  is  any  thing 
I  ought  to  know,  Wilmot,  tell  it  at  once,  and  don't  be  afraid.  What  has 
happened  to  you?" 

"To  me,  ma'am, — la!  nothing,''  replied  the  maid;  "it's  something 
about  the  lady  at  Dame  Nixon's,  only  you  commanded  me  never  to  speak 
the  name  of —  " 

And  again  the  £0<~ d  woman  stopped  short.  Mrs.  Fitzhenry,  a  little  sur- 
prised, and  somewhat  angry,  bade  her  go  on.  At  length,  in  plain  words 
she  was  told  : 

"  Why,  ma'am,  the  lady  down  in  the  Vale  is  no  other  than  my  lady  — 
than  Lady  Lodore." 

"  Ridiculous  —  who  told  you  so  V* 

"My  own  eyes,  ma'am;  i  shouldn't  have  believed  anything  else.  I 
saw  the  lady,  and  it  was  my  lady,  as  sure  as  I  stand  here." 

*■  But  how  could  you  know  her?  it  is  years  since  you  saw  her." 

"Yes  ma'am,"  said  the  woman,  with  a  smile  of  superiority  ;  "  but  it  is 
not  easy  to  forget  Lady  Lodore.  See  her  yourself,  ma'am, —  you  will 
know  then  that  I  am  right." 

Wilmot  had  lived  twenty  yaa*-s  with  Mrs.  Fitzhenry.  She  had  visited 
town  w  th  her  at  the  time  of  Ethel's  christening  She  had  been  kept  in 
Vexatious  ignorance  of  subsequent  events,  till  the  period  of  the  visit  of  her 
mistress  and  niece  to  London  two  years  before,  when  she  indemnified  her- 
self. Through  the  servants  of  Vilfiers,  and  of  the  Misses  Saville,  she  had 
learned  a  vast  deal ;  and  not  satisfied  with  mere  hearsay,  she  had  seen 
Lady  Lodore  several  times  getting  into  her  carriage  at  her  own  door,  and 
had  even  been  into  her  house:  such  energy  is  there  in  a  liberal  curiosity. 
The  same  disinterested  feeling  had  caused  her  to  2:0  down  to  Dame  Nixon's 
with  an  offer  from  her  mistress  of  service  to  the  lady,  hearing  she  was  ill. 
She  went  perfectly  unsuspicious  of  the  wonderful  discovery  she  was  about 
to  make,  and  was  thus  rewarded  bevond  her  most  san  mine  hopes  by  being 
in  possession  of  a  secret,  known  to  hfifself  alone.  The  keeping  of  a  secret 
is,  however,  a  post  of  no  honour  if  all  knowled  Te  be  confined  to  the  posses- 
sor alone.  Mrs.  Wilmot  was  tolerably  faithful,  w'th  all  h°r  love  of  know- 
led  *e ;  she  was  sure  it  would  v  ^x  her  mistress  if  Ladv  Lodore's  strange 
place  of  abode  wei*e  known  at  Lon?field.  and  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  was  conse- 
quently the  first  pe-son  to  whom  sh^  had  hinted  the  fact.  All  this  account 
she  detailed  with  great .volubility.  Her  mistress  recommended  discretion 
most  earnestly  ;  and  at  the  same  time  expressed  a  doubt  whether  her  infor- 
mation was  correct. 

"I  wish  you  would  ^0  and  judore  for  yourself,  ma'am,"  said  the  m*id. 

"God  forbid!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fitzhenry.  "God  grant  I  never  see 
Lady  Lodore  again !     She  will  go  soon.     You  tell  me  that  Dame  Nixon 


SI  6  LODORE* 

says  she  is  only  staying  till  she  is  well.     She  will  go  soon,  and  it  need 
never  be  known,  except  to  ourselves,  Wilmot,  that  she  was  ever  there." 

There  was  a  dignity  in  this  eternal  mystery  that  somewhat  compensated 
for  the  absence  of  wonder  and  fuss  which  the  woman  had  anticipated  with 
intense  pleasure.  She  assured  her  mistress,  over  and  over  again,  of  hei 
secrecy  and  discretion,  and  was  dismissed  with  the  exhortation  to  forget  all 
she  had  learned  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"Wherefore  did  she  come  here?  what  can  she  be  doing?"  Mrs.  Fitz- 
henry  asked  herself  over  and  over  again.  She  could  net  guess.  It  Mas 
strange,  it  was  mysterious,  and  some  mischief  was  at.  the  bottom  —  but  she 
would  go  soon  — "  would  that  she  were  already  gone  !" 

It  must  be  mentioned  that  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry  had  left  Maristmv 
Castle  before  the  arrival  of  Mr.  G.ayland,  and  had  therefore  no  knowledge 
of  the  still  more  mysterious  cloud  that  enveloped  Lady  Lodore's  absence. 
Ignorant  of  her  self-destroying  sacrifices  and  generosity,  her  pity  was  not 
excited,  her  feelings  were  all  against  her.  She  counted  the  days  as  thev 
passed,  and  looked  wistfully  at  Wilmot,  hoping  that  she  would  quickly 
bring  tidings  of  the  lady's  departure.  In  vain;  the  doctor  ceased  lo  visit 
the  cottage,  but  the  lady  remained.  All  at  once  the  doctor  visited  it  again 
with  greater  assiduity  than  ever  —  not  on  account  of  his  beautiful  patient 
—  but  Dame  Nixon  had  had  a  paralyt  c  stroke,  and  the  kind  lady  had  sent 
for  him,  and  promised  to  defray  all  the  expenses  of  the  poor  woman's  ill- 
ness. 

All  this  was  truly  vexatious.  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  fretted,  and  even  asked 
Wilmot  questions,  but  the  unwelcome  visiter  was  still  there.  Wherefore? 
What  could  have  put  so  disagreeable  a  whim  into  her  head  ?  The  good 
lady  could  think  of  no  motive,  while  she  considered  her  presence  an  insult. 
She  was  still  more  annoyed  when  she  received  a  letter  from  Ethel.  It  had 
been  proposed  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Villiers  should  pay  her  a  visit  in  the 
spring  ;  but  now  Ethel  wrote  to  say  that  she  might  be  immediately  expected. 
"I  have  strange  things  to  tell  you  about  my  dear  mother,"  wrote  Ethel; 
"  it  is  very  uncertain  where  she  is.  Horatio  can  hear  nothirg  of  her  at 
Paris,  and  will  soon  return.  Edward  is  going  to  Wales,  as  there  seems  a 
great  likelihood  that  she  has  secluded  herself  there.  W7hile  he  is  away  you 
may  expect  me.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  stay  long —  he  will  come  at  the  end 
of  a  week  to  fetch  me." 

Mrs.  Fitzhenry  shuddered.  Her  prejudices  were  stronger  than  ever. 
She  experienced  the  utmost  wretchedness  from  the  idea  that  the  residence  of 
Lady  Lodore  would  be  discovered,  and  a  family  union  effected.  It  seemed 
desecration  to  the  memory  of  her  brother,  ruin  to  Ethel  —  the  greatest  mis 
fortune  that  could  befall  any  of  them.  Her  feelings  were  exaggerated,  but 
they  were  on  that,  account  the  more  powerful.  How  could  she  avert  the 
evil  ?  —  a  remedy  must  be  sought,  and  she  fixed  on  one  —  a  desperate  one, 
in  truth,  which  appeared  to  her  the  sole  mode  of  saving  them  all  from  the 
greatest  disasters. 

She  resolved  to  visit  Lady  Lodore;  to  represent  to  her  the  impropriety 
and  wickedness  of  her  having  any  intercourse  with  her  daughter,  and  to 
entreat  her  to  depart  before  Ethel's  arrival.  Her  violence  might  almost 
seem  madness;  but  all  people  who  live  in  solitude  become  to  a  cei tain 
degree  insane.  Their  views  of  things  are  not  corrected^  by  comparing  them 
with  those  of  others  ;  and  the  strangest  want  of  proportion  always  reigns 
in  theu  ideas  and  sentiments. 


LODORE.  f(7 


CHAPTER  LIIL 

So  loth  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

Fiom  all  the  links  that  bind  us  ; 
So  t  rn  our  hear  s,  where'er  we  rove, 

To  thuae  we've  left,  behind  us. 

Thomas  Moore. 

On  the  following  morning  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry  drove  to  the  Vale  of 
Bevvlmg.  It  was  the  lastday  of  February.  The  March  winds  were  hushed 
as  y-it ;  the  breezes  were  balmy,  the  sunshine  cheerful ;  a  few  soft  clouds 
flecked  the  heavens,  and  the  blue  sky  appeared  between  them  calm  and 
pure.  Each  passing  air  breathed  life  and  happiness  —  it  caressed  the  cheek 
—  and  the  swelling  buds  of  the  trees  felt  its  quickening  influence.  The 
almond-trees  were  in  bloom  —  the  pear  blossoms  began  to  whiten  —  the 
tender  green  of  the  young  leaves  showed  themselves  here  and  there  among 
the  hedges.  The  old  lady  felt  the  cheering  influence,  and  would  have  be- 
come even  gay,  had  not  trie  idea  of  the  errand  she  was  on  checked  her 
spirits.  Sometimes  the  remembrance  that  she  was  really  going  to  see  her 
sister-in-law  absolutely  startled  her;  once  or  twice  she  thought  of  turning 
back  ;  she  passed  through  the  lanes,  and  then  alighting  from  her  carriage, 
walked  by  a  raised  foot  way,  across  some  arable  fields  —  and  again  through 
a  litile  grove;  the  winding  path  made  a  turn,  and  Dame  Nixon's  white, 
low-roofed  cottage  was  before  her.  Every  thing  about  it  looked  trim,  but 
very  humble  :  and  it  was  unadorned  during  this  early  season  by  the  luxury 
of  flowers  and  plants,  which  usually  give  even  an  appearance  of  elegance  to 
an  English  cottage.  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  opened  the  little  gate — her  knees 
trembled  as  she  walked  through  the  scanty  garden,  which  breathed  of  the 
new-sprung  violets.  The  entrance  to  the  cottage  was  by  the  kitchen  :  she 
entered  this,  and  found  Margaret  occupied  by  a  culinary  preparation  for 
her  grandmother.  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  asked  after  the  old  woman's  health,  and 
thus  gained  a  little  time.  Margaret  answered  in  her  own  former  quiet  yet 
cheerful  voice  ;  she  was  changed  from  what  she  had  been  a  few  weeks  be- 
fore. The  bloom  had  not  returned  to  her  cheeks,  but  they  no  longer  ap- 
peared streaked  with  deathly  paleness  ;  her  motions  had  lost  the  heaviness 
that  showed  a  mind  ill  at  ease.  Mrs.  Elizabeth  congratulated  her  on  the 
restoration  of  her  health. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  replied,  with  a  blush,  "  I  am  not  the  same  creature  I  used 
to  be.  thank  God,  and  the  angel  he  has  sent  us  here ;  —  if  my  poor  grand- 
mother would  but  get  well,  I  should  be  quite  happy  ;  but  that  is  asking  too 
much  at  her  time  of  life." 

The  old  lady  made  no  farther  observations  :  she  did  not  wish  to  hear 
the  praises  of  her  sister-in-law.  "  Your  lodger  is  still  here  V  at  length 
she  said. 

"  Yes,  God  be  praised !"  replied  Margaret 

"  "Will  you  give  her  my  compliments,  and  say  I  am  here,  and  that  1  wish 
to  see  her." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Margaret ;  "  only  the  lady  has  refused  to  see  any 
one,  and  she  does  not  like  being  asked."' 

"  1  do  not  wish  to  be  impertinent  or  intrusive,"  answered  Mrs.  Eliza- 
beth ;  "  only  tell  her  my  name,  and  if  she  makes  any  objection,  of  course 
she  will  do  as  she  likes.     Where  is  she  ?" 

"She  is  sitting  with  my  poor  grandmother;  the  nurse  —  Heaven  bless 

34— 3* 


218  lodore. 

her!  she  would  hire  a  nurse,  to  spare  me,  as  she  said  —  is  lam  down  to 
sleep,  and  she  said  she  would  watch  by  grandmother  while  J  got  the  gruel ; 
but  it's  ready  now,  and  I  will  go  and  tell  her." 

Away  tripped  Margaret,  leaving  her  guest  lost  in  wonder.  Lady  Lodore 
watching  the  sick-bed  of  an  old  cottager  —  Lady  Lodore  immured  in  a 
poverty-stricken  abode,  fit  only  for  the  poorer  sort  of  country  people.  Jt 
was  more  than  strange,  it  was  miraculous.  W"Y  et  she  refused  to  accom- 
pany poor  Henry  to  America  !  there  must  be  some  strange  mystery  in  all 
*his,  that  does  not  tell  well  for  her." 

So  bitterly  uncharitable  was  the  unforgiving  old  lady  towards  her  brother's 
widow.  She  ruminated  on  these  things  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then 
Margaret  came  to  usher  her  into  th3  wicked  one's  presence.  The  sitting- 
room  destined  for  the  lodger  was  neat,  though  very  plain.  The  walls  were 
wainscoted  and  painted  white,  —  the  windows  small  and  latticed,  —  the 
furniture  was  old  black  shining  mahogany;  the  chaiis  high-backed  and 
clumsy  ;  the  table  heavy  and  incommodious  :  the  fire-place  large  and  airy  ; 
and  the  shelf  of  the  mantel-piece  almost  as  high  as  the  low  ceiling :  there 
were  a  few  things  of  a  more  modern  construction  ;  a  comfortable  sofa  ;  a 
rose-wood  bureau  and  large  folding  screen ;  near  the  fire  was  u  large  easy 
chair  of  Gillows's  manufacture,  two  light  cane  ones,  and  two  small  tables  ; 
vases  filled  with  hyacinths,  jonquils,  and  other  spring  flowers,  stood  on  one, 
and  an  embroidery  frame  occupied  the  other.  There  was  a  perfume  of 
fresh-gathered  flowers  in  the  room,  which  the  open  window  rendered  very 
agfeeable.  Lady  Lodore  was  standing  near  the  fire — (for  V  iL.iut  was 
not  mistaken,  and  it  was  she  indeed  who  now  presented  herself  to  Mrs. 
Fitzhenry's  eyes)  —  she  might  be  agitated  —  she  did  not  show  it — she 
came  forward  and  held  out  her  hand.  "  Dear  Bessy,"  she  said,  "  you  are 
very  kind  to  visit  me  ;  I  thank  you  very  much." 

The  poor  recluse  was  overpowered.  The  cordiality  of  the  greeting 
frightened  her  :  she  who  had  come  full  of  bitter  reproach  and  hard  purposes, 
to  be  thanked  with  that  sweet  voice  and  smile.  "I  thought,"  at  length  she 
stammered  out,  "  that  you  did  not  wish  to  be  known.  I  am  glad  you  are 
not  offended,  Cornelia." 

"  Offended  by  kindness  ?  Oh  no  !  It  is  true  I  did  not  wish  —  I  do  not 
wish  that  it  should  be  known  that  [  am  here — but  since,  by  some  strange 
accident,  you  have  discovered  me,  how  can  I  help  being  grateful  for  your 
visit?  I  am  indeed  glad  to  see  you;  it  is  so  long  since  I  have  heard  any 
thing.     Ah  !  dear  Bessy,  tell  me,  how  is  Ethel  ?" 

Tears  glistened  in  the  mother's  eyes :  she  asked  many  questions,  and 
Mrs.  Fitzhenry  a  little  recovered  her  self-possession,  as  she  answered  them. 
She  looked  at  Lady  Lodore  —  she  was  changed  —  she  could  not  fad  of 
being  changed  after  so  many  years,  —  she  was  no  longer  a  beautiful  girl, 
but  she  was  a  lovely  woman.  Despite  the  traces  of  years,  which  how  ever 
lightly  they  impressed,  yet  might  be  discerned,  expression  so  embellished 
her,  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  adfloire  ;  brilliancy  had  given  place  to 
softness,  animation  to  serenity;  still  she  was  fair — still  her  silken  hair 
clustered  on  her  brow,  and  her  sweet  eyes  were  full  of  fire  ;  her  smile  had 
more  than  its  former  charm  —  it  came  from  the  heart. 

Mrs.  Fitzhenry  was  not,  however,  to  be  subdued  by  a  little  outward 
show.  She  was  there,  who  had  betrayed  and  deserted  (such  were  the 
energetic  words  she  was  accustomed  to  employ)  the  noble,  broken-hearted 
Lodore.  The  thought  steeled  her  purpose,  and  she  contrived  at.  last  to  ask 
whether  Lady  Lodore  was  going  to  remain  much  longer  in  Ess<  x  ? 

"I  have  been  going  every  day  since  I  came  here.  In  a  few  weeks  I 
shall  certainly  be  gone.     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Because  I  thought  —  that  is  —  you  have  made  a  secret  of  your  being 


lodoiie.  219 

here,  and  I  expect  Ethel  in  a  day  or  two,  and  she  would  certainly  discover 
vou." 

"Why  should  she  not?"  asked  Lady  Lodore.  "Why  should  you  be 
averse  to  my  seeing  Ethel  ?" 

It  is  very  difficult  to  say  a  disagreeable  thing,  especially  to  one  unaccus- 
tonud  to  society,  and  who  is  quite  ignorant  of  the  art  of  concealing  the 
sting  of  her  intentions  by  flowery  words.  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  said  something 
about  her  sister-in-law's  own  wishes,  and  the  desire  expressed  by  Lodore 
that  there  should  be  no  intercourse  between  the  mother  and  daughter. 

Cornelia's  eyes  flashed  fire  —  "  Am  I,"  she  exclaimed,  "to  be  always  the 
sacrifice?  Is  my  husband's  vengeance  to  pursue  me  beyond  his  grave  — 
even  till  I  reach  mine  ?  Unjust  as  he  was,  he  would  not  have  desired 
this." 

M  s.  Elizabeth  coloured  with  anger.  Lady  Lodore  continued —  "  Pardon 
me,  Bassy,  I  do  not  wish  to  say  any  thing  annoying  to  you  or  in  blame  of 
Lo  lore.     God  knows     did  him  great  wrong  —  but  —  " 

"  Oh  Cornelia,"  cried  the  old  lady,  "  do  you  indeed  acknowledge  that 
you  were  to  blame?" 

Lady  Lodore  smiled,  and  said,  M  I  were  strangely  blind  to  the  defects  of 
my  own  character,  and  to  the  consequences  of  my  actions,  were  I  not  con- 
scious of  mv  errors  ;  but  retrospection  is  useless,  and  the  punishment  has 
been  —  is  — sufficiently  severe.  Lodore  lumself  would  not  have  perpetuated 
his  resentment,  had  he  lived  only  a  very  little  while  longer.  But  I  will 
speak  frankly  to  you,  Bessy,  as  frankly  as  I  may,  and  you  shall  decide  on 
mv  farther  stay  here.  From  circumstances  which  it  is  immaterial  to  explain, 
I  have  resolved  on  retiring  into  absolute  solitude.  I  shall  never  live  in 
London  again  — never  again  see  any  of  my  old  friends  and  acquaintances. 
The  course  of  my  life  is  entirely  changed  ;  and  whether  I  live  here  or  else- 
where, I  shall  live  in  obscurity  and  poverty.  I  do  not  wish  Ethel  to  know 
this.  .  She  would  wish  to  assist  me,  and  she  has  scarcely  enough  for  herself. 
I  do  not  like  being  a  burden  —  i  do  not  like  being  pitied  —  I  do  not  like 
bein  *  argued  with,  or  to  have  my  actions  commented  upon.  You  know 
that  my  disposition  was  always  independent" 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  assented  with  a  sigh,  casting  up  her  eyes  to  heaven. 

Lady  Lodore  smiled,  and  went  on.  "  You  think  this  is  a  strange  place 
for  me  to  live  in  :  whether  here  or  elsewhere,  I  shall  never  live  in  any  better  : 
I  shall  be  fortunate  if  I  find  myself  as  well  off  when  I  leave  Essex,  for  the 
people  here  are  good  and  honest,  and  the  poor  girl  loves  me,  —  it  is  always 
pleasant  to  be  loved." 

A  tear  again  filled  Cornelia's  eyes  —  she  tried  to  animate  herself  to 
smile.  "  I  have  nothing  to  love  in  all  the  wide  world  except  Ethel ;  I  do 
love  her  ;  every  one  must  love  her  —  she  is  so  gentle  —  so  kind  —  so  warm- 
hearted ann  beautiful,  —  I  love  her  more  than  my  own  heart's  blood  ;  she  is 
my  chiM — part  of  that  blood  —  part  of  myself — the  better  part :  I  have 
seen  little  of  her,  but  every  look  and  word  is  engraved  on  my  heart.  1  love 
her  voice  —  her  smiles  — the  pressure  of  her  soft  white  hand.  Pity  me,  dear 
Bjs?y,  I  am  never  to  see  any  of  these,  which  are  all  that  I  love  on  earth, 
again.  This  idea  fills  me  with  regret  —  with  worse  —  with  sorrow.  There 
is  a  grave  not  far  from  here,  which  contains  one  you  loved  bpyond  all  others, 
— what  would  you  not  give  to  see  him  alive  once  again?  To  visit  his  tomb 
is  a  consolation  to  you.  I  must  not  see  even  the  walls  within  which  my 
blessed  child  lives.  You  alone  can  help  me  —  can  be  of  comfort  to  me. 
Do  not  refus°  —  do  not  send  me  away.  If  I  leave  this  place,  I  shall  go  to 
some  secluded  nook  in  Wales,  and  be  quite  —  quite  alone;  the  sun  will 
shine,  and  the  errass  will  qrow  at  mv  feet,  but  my  heart  will  be  dead  within 
m°,  an-1  I  shall  nine  and  die.  I  have  intended  to  do  this  ;  I  have  waited 
only  till  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  woman  here  should  be  at  an  end,  t1  it  I 


220  LODORE. 

may  be  of  service  to  Margaret,  and  then  go.     Your  visit,  which  I  fancied 
meant  in  kindness,  has  put  other  thoughts  into  ray  head. 

"  Do  not  object  to  my  staying  here ;  let  me  remain  ;  and  do  yet  more 
for  me —  come  to  me  sometimes,  and  bring  me  tidings  of  my  daughter  — 
tell  me  what  she  says  —  how  she  looks,  —  tell  me  that  she  is  at  each  moment 
well  and  happy.  Ah !  do  this,  dear  Bessy,  and  I  will  bless  you.  1  shall 
never  see  her  —  at  least  not  for  years  ;  there  are  many  things  to  prevent  H: 
yet  how  could  I  drag  out  those  years  quite  estranged  from  her  ?  My  heart 
has  died  within  me  each  time  I  have  thought  of  it.  But  I  can  live  as  1  say ; 
I  shall  expect  you  every  now  and  then  to  come  and  talk  to  me  of  her ;  sh<> 
need  never  know  that  I  am  so  near — she  comes  so  seldom  to  Essex.  ] 
shall  soon  be  forgotten  at  Longfield.  Will  you  consent  ?  you  will  do  a 
kind  action,  and  God  will  bless  you." 

Mrs.  Fitzhenry  was  one  of  those  persons  who  always  find  it  difficult  to 
say  No  ;  and  Lady  Lodore  asked  with  so  much  earnestness  ihat  she  com- 
manded ;  she  felt  that  her  request  ought  to  be  granted,  and  therefore  it.  was 
impossible  to  refuse  it.  Before  she  well  knew  what  she  had  said,  the  good 
lady  had  yielded  her  consent,  and  received  her  sister-in-lawTs  warm  and 
heartfelt  thanks. 

Mrs.  Fitzhenry  looked  round  the  room.  "  But  how  can  you  think  of 
staying  here,  Cornelia?"  she  said  ;  "  this  place  is  not  fit  for  you.  I  should 
have  thought  that  you  could  never  have  endured  such  homely  rooms."  ' 

"  Do  you  think  them  so  bad  ?"  replied  the  lady :  "  I  think  them  very 
pleasant,  for  I  have  done  with  pride,  and  I  find  peace  and  comfort  here. 
Look,"  she  continued,  throwing  open  a  door  that  led  into  the  garden,  "  is 
not  that  delightful  ?  This  garden  is  very  pretty :  that  clear  rivulet  murmurs 
by  with  so  lulling  a  sound  ;  —  and  look  at  these  violets,  are  they  not  beauti- 
ful ?  I  have  planted  a  great  many  flowers,  and  they  will  soon  come  up. 
Do  you  not  know  how  pleasant  it  is  to  watch  the  shrubs  we  plant,  and 
water,  and  rear  ourselves?  —  to  see  the  little  green  shoots  peep  out,  and 
the  leaves  unfold,  and  then  the  flower  blossom  and  expand,  diffusing  its 
delicious  odour  around,  —  all,  as  it  were,  created  by  one's  self,  by  one's  own 
nursing,  out  of  a  bit  of  stick  or  an  ugly  bulb?  This  place  is  veiy  pretty, 
I  assure  you :  when  the  leaves  are  on  the  trees  they  make  a  bower,  and 
the  grove  behind  the  house  is  shady,  and  leads  to  lanes  and  fields  more 
beautiful  than  any  I  ever  saw.  I  have  loitered  for  hours  in  this  garden,  and 
been  quite  happy.  Now  I  shall  be  happier  than  ever,  thanks  to  you.  You 
will  not  forget  me.  Come  as  often  as  you  can.  You  say  that  you  expect 
Ethel  soon  ?" 

Lady  Lodore  walked  with  her  sister  in-law  to  the  garden- gate,  and 
beyond,  through  the  little  copse,  still  talking  of  her  daughter.  "  I  cannot 
go  farther,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  without  a  bonnet  —  so  good  by,  dear  Bessy. 
Come  soon.     Thank  you  — thank  you  for  this  visit." 

She  held  out  her  hand  :  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  took  it,  pressed  it,  a  half  feeling 
came  over  her  as  if  she  were  about  to  kiss  the  cheek  of  her  offending  relative, 
but  her  heart  hardened,  she  blushed,  and  muttering  a  hasty  good-by,  she 
hurried  away.  She  was  bewildered,  and  after  walking  a  few  steps,  she 
turned  round,  and  saw  again  the  white  dress  of  Cornelia,  as  a  turn  in  the 
path  hid  her.  The  grand,  the  exclusive  Lady  Lodore  —  the  haughty,  fashion- 
able, worldly,  heartless  wife,  thus  metamorphosed  into  a  tender-hearted 
mother  —  suing  to  her  for  crumbs  of  charitable  love  —  and  hiding  all  her 
boasted  advantages  in  that  low-roofed  cottage  !    What  could  it  all  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Fitzhenry  walked  on.  Again  she  thought.  "How  odd!  I  wont 
there,  determining  to  persuade  her  to  go  away,  and  miserable  at  the  thotisht 
of  seeing  her  only  once  ;  and  now  I  have  promised  to  visit  her  often,  and 
agreed  that  she  shall  live  here.  Have  I  not  done  wrong?  What  would 
my  poor  brother  say  ?     Yet  I  could  not  refuse.     Poor  thing  !  how  could  I 


LODORE.  221 

refuse,  when  she  said  that  she  had  nothing  else  to  live  for?  Besides,  to 
go  away  and  live  alone  in  Wales  —  it  would  be  too  dreadful;  and  she 
thanked  me  as  if  she  were  so  grateful.     I  hope  I  have  not  done  wroncr. 

"  But  how  strange  it  is  that  Henry's  widow  should  have  become  so  poor ; 
she  has  given  up  a  part  of  her  income  to  Ethel,  but  a  great  deal  remains. 
What  can  she  have  done  with  it?  She  is  mysterious,  and  there  is  never 
any  good  in  mystery.     Who  knows  what  she  may  have  to  conceal  ?" 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  got  in  her  carriage,  and  each  step  of  the  horses  took  he; 
farther  from  the  web  of  enchantment  which  Cornelia  had  thrown  over  her. 
"  She  is  always  strange,'1  —  thus  ran  her  meditations  ;  "  and  how  am  I  to 
see  her,  and  no  one  find  it  out?  and  what  a  story  for  Longfield,  nat  Lady 
Lo-lore  should  be  living  in  poverty  in  Dame  Nixon's  cottage.  I  forgot  to 
tell  her  that  —  I  forgot  to  say  so  many  things  I  meant  to  say  —  1  don't  know 
why,  except  that  she  talked  so  much,  and  I  did  not  know  how  to  bring  in 
mv  objections.  But  it  cannot  be  right:  and  Ethel  in  her  long  rambles  and 
rides  with  Miss  Derham  or  Mr.  Villiers  will  be  sure  to  find  her  out.  I  wish 
I  had  not  seen  her  —  I  will  write  and  tell  her  I  have  changed  my  mind,  and 
entreat  her  to  go  away." 

As  it  occurs  to  all  really  good-natured  persons,  it  was  very  disagreeable 
to  Mrs.  Fitzhanry  to  be  angry,  and  she  visited  the  ill  temper  so  engendered 
on  the  head  of  poor  Cornelia.  She  disturbed  herself  by  the  idea  of  all  the 
disagreeable  things  that  might  happen  —  of  her  sister-in-law's  positive 
refusal  to  go ;  the  very  wording  which  she  imagined  for  her  intended 
letter  puzzled  and  irritated  her.  She  no  longer  felt  the  breath  of  spring  as 
pleasant,  but  sat  back  in  the  chariot,  "  nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm." 
When  she  reached  her  home,  Ethel's  carriage  was  at  her  door. 

The  meeting,  as  ever  between  aunt  and  niece,  was  affectionate.  Fanny 
was  welcomed,  the  baby  was  kissed,  and  little  Clorinda  admired,  but  the 
theme  nearest  Ethel's  heart  was  speedily  introduced  —  her  mother.  The 
disquietudes  she  felt  on  her  account  —  Mr.  Saville's  journey  to  Paris — the 
visit  of  Villiers  to  Wales,  to  discover  her  place  of  concealment  —  the  inutility 
of  all  their  endeavours. 

"  But  why  are  they  so  anxious  ?"  asked  her  aunt  "  I  can  understand 
you  —  you  have  some  fantastic  notion  about  your  mother ;  but  how  can  Mr. 
Villiers  desire  so  very  much  to  find  her?" 

"  I  could  almost  say,"  said  Ethel,  "  that  Edward  is  more  eager  than 
mvself,  though  I  should  wrong  my  own  affection  and  gratitude  ;  but  he 
was  more  unjust  towards  her,  and  thus  he  feels  the  weight  of  obligation 
more  keenlv  ;  but,  perhaps,  dear  aunt,  you  do  not  know  all  that  my  dearest 
mother  has  done  for  us — the  unparalleled  sacrifices  she  has  made." 

Then  Ethel  went  on  to  tell  her  all  that  Mr.  Gayland  had  communicated  — 
the  sale  of  her  jointure  —  the  very  small  residue  of  money  she  had  kept  for 
herself — the  entire  paj^ment  of  Villiers's  debts  —  and  afterwards  the  sur- 
render of  the  remainder  of  her  income  and  of  her  house  to  them.  Her  eves 
glistened  as  she  spoke  ;  her  heart,  overflowing  with  admiration  and  •flec- 
tion, shone  in  her  beautiful  race,  her  voice  was  pregnant  with  sensibility, 
and  her  expressions  lull  of  deep  feeling. 

M>*s.  Elizabeth's  heart  was  not  of  stone  —  far  from  it ;  it  was,  except  in 
the  one  instance  of  her  sister-in-law,  made  of  pliable  materials.  She  heard 
Ethel's  story —  she  caught  by  sympathy  the  tenderness  and  pity  she  poured 
forth  —she  thought  of  Lady  Lodore  at  the  cottage,  a  dwelling  so  unlike 
anv  she  had  ever  inhabited  before  —  poverty-stricken  and  m^an  ;  she  re- 
membered her  praises  of  it — her  cheerfulness — the  simplicity  of  taste 
which  she  displayed  —  the  light-hearted  content  with  which  she  spoke  ot 
every  privation  except  the  absence  of  Ethel.  What  before  was  mysterious 
wrong,  was  now  manifest  heroism.  The  loftiness  and  generositv  of  her 
min  1  rose  uoon  the  old  lady  unclouded  :  her  own  uncharitable  deductions 
3* 


222  LODORE. 


stung  her  with  remorse ;  she  continued  to  listen,  and  Ethel  to  narrate,  and 
the  big  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and  rolled  down  her  venerable  cheeks, — 
tears  at  once  of  repentance  and  admiration. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

Repentance  is  a  tender  sprite  ; 

If  aught  on  earth  have  heavenly  might, 

"Tis  lodged  within  her  silent  tear. 

Wordsworth. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenby  was  not  herself  aware  of  all  that  Lady 
Lodore  had  suffered,  or  the  extent  of  her  sacrifices.  She  guessed  darkly 
at  them,  but  it  was  the  detail  that  rendered  them  so  painful,  and,  but  for 
their  motive,  humiliating  to  one  nursed  in  luxury  and  accustomed  to  all 
those  intermediate  servitors  and  circumstances,  which  stand  between  the 
rich  and  the  bare  outside  of  the  working-day  world.  Cornelia  shrunk 
from  the  address  of  those  she  did  not  know,  and  from  the  petty  acts 
of  daily  life,  which  had  gone  on  before  without  her  entering  into  their 
detail. 

Her  illness  at  Newbury  had  been  severe.  She  was  attacked  by  the 
scarlet  fever ;  the  doctor  had  ordered  her  to  be  removed  from  the  bustle  of 
the  inn,  and  a  furnished  villa  had  been  taken  for  her,  while  she  could  only 
give  a  languid  assent  to  propositions  which  she  understood  confusedly.  She 
was  a  long  time  very  ill  —  a  long  time  weak  and  slowly  convalescent.  At 
length  health  dawned  on  her,  accompanied  by  a  disposition  attuned  to  con- 
tent and  a  wish  for  tranquillity.  Her  residence  was  retired,  commodious, 
and  pretty  ;  she  was  pleased  with  it,  she  did  not  wish  to  remove,  and  was 
glad  to  procrastinate  from  day  to  day  any  consideration  of  the  future.  Thus 
it  was  a  long  time  before  the  strength  of  her  thoughts  and  purposes  was  re- 
newed, or  that  she  began  to  think  seriously  of  where  she  was,  and  what 
she  was  going  to  do. 

During  the  half  delirium,  the  disturbed  and  uncontrollable,  but  not  un- 
meaning reveries,  oi  her  fever,  the  idea  of  visiting  Lodore's  grave  had 
haunted  her  pertinaciously.  She  had  often  dreamt  of  it :  at  one  time  the 
tomb  seemed  to  rise  in  a  lonely  desert ;  and  the  dead  slept  peacefully  be- 
neath the  sunshine  or  starlight.  At  another,  storms  and  howling  winds 
were  around,  groans  and  sighs,  mingled  with  the  sound  of  the  tempest,  and 
menaces  and  reproaches  against  her  were  breathed  from  the  cold  marble. 
Now  her  imagination  pictured  it  within  the  aisles  of  a  magnificent  cathe- 
dral ;  and  now  again  the  real  scene  —  the  rustic  church  of  Longfield  was 
vividly  present  to  her  mind.  She  saw  the  pathwa)'  through  the  green 
chu^hyard  —  the  ruined  ivy-mantled  tower,  which  showed  how  much  lar- 
ger the  edifice  had  been  informer  days,  near  which  might  be  still  discerned 
on  high  a  niche  containing  the  holy  mother  and  divine  child  —  the  half- 
defaced  porch  on  which  rude  monkish  imagery  was  carved  —  the  time  worn 
pews,  and  painted  window.  She  had  never  entered  this  church  but  once, 
many,  many  years  ago ;  and  it  was  strange  how  in  sleep  and  fever-troubled 
reverie,  each  portion  of  it  presented  itself  distinctly  and  vividly  to  her 
imagination.  During  these  perturbed  visions,  one  other  form  and  voice 
perpetually  recurred.  She  heard  Ethel  continually  repeat,  "  Come !  Come !" 
and  often  her  figure  flitted  round  the  tomb  or  sat  beside  it.  Once,  on 
awakening  from  a  dream,  which  impressed  her  deeply  by  the  importunity 
and  earnestness  of  her  daughter's  appeal,  she  was  forcibly  impelled  to  con- 


LODORE.  2^3 

sider  it  her  duty  to  obey,  and  she  made  a  vow  that  oa  recovering  from  her 
illness,  she  would  visit  her  husband's  grave. 

Now  while  pondering  on  the  humiliations  and  cheerless  necessities  which 
darkened  her  future,  and  rousing  herself  to  form  some  kind  of  resolution 
concerning  them,  this  dream  was  repeated,  and  on  awakening,  the  memory 
of  her  forgotten  vow  renewed  itself  in  her.  She  dwelt  on  it  with  pleasure. 
Here  was  something  to  be  done  that  was  not  mere  wretchedness  and  lonely 
wandering  —  something  that,  connecting  her  with  the  past,  took  away  the 
sense  of  desertion  and  solitude,  so  hard  to  bear.  In  the  morning,  at  break- 
fast, it  so  chanced  that  she  read  in  the  Morning  Herald  a  little  paragraph 
an  louncin  *  that  Viscount  Maristow  was  entertaining  a  party  of  friends  at 
Miristow  Castle,  among  whom  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Villiers,  and  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry.  This  was  a  fortunate  coincidence.  The  dragon 
ceased  for  a  mom  mt  to  watch  the  garden,  and  she  might  avail  herself  of 
its  absence  to  visit  its  treasure  unnoticed  and  unknown.  She  put  her  pro- 
ject into  immediate  execution.  She  crossed  the  country,  passing  through 
London  on  her  way  to  Longfield  —  she  arrived.  Without  delay  she  fulfilled 
her  purpose.  She  entered  the  church,  and  viewed  the  tablet,  inscribed  sim- 
ply with  the  name  of  Lodore,  and  the  date  of  his  birth  and  death.  The 
word?.  we-e  few  and  conmon-pla.ee,  but  they  were  eloquent  to  her.  They 
told  her  that  the  cold  decaying  shape  lay  beneath,  which  in  the  pride  of  life 
an  1  love  had  clasped  her  in  its  arms  as  its  own  for  evermore.  Short-lived 
had  been  the  possession.  She  had  loosened  ihe  tie  even  while  thought  and 
feeling  ruled  the  now  insentient  brain  — he  had  been  scarcely  less  dead  to 
her  while  inhabiting  the  distant  Illinois,,  than  now  that  a  stone  placed  above 
hi  n  gave  visible  token  of  his  material  presence,  and  the  eternal  absence  of 
his  immortal  part.  Cornelia  had  never  before  felt  so  sensibly  that  she  had 
been  a  wife  neglecting  her  duties,  despising  avow  she  had  solemnly  pledged, 
estranging  herself  from  him,  who,  by  religious  ordinance,  and  the  laws  of 
societv,  alone  had  privilege  to  protect  and  love  her.  Nor  had  she  before  felt 
so  intimately  the  change  —  that  she  was  a  widow  ;  that  her  lover,  her  hus- 
band, the  father  of  her  child,  the  forsaken,  dead  Lodore,  was  indeed  no  part 
of  the  tissue  of  life,  action,  and  feeling  to  which  she  belonged. 

Solitude  and  sickness  had  before  awakened  many  thoughts  in  her  mind, 
and  she  recalled  them  as  she  sat  beside  her  dead  husband's  grave.  She 
looked  into  her  motives,  tried  to  understand  the  deceits  she  had  practised  on 
herself,  and  to  purify  her  conscience.  She  meditated  on  time,  that  law  of 
the  world,  which  is  so  mysterious,  and  so  potent ;  ruling  us  despotically,  and 
yet  wholly  unappreciated  till  we  think  upon  it.  Petrarch  says,  that  he  was 
never  so  young,  but  that  he  knew  that  he  was  growing  old.  Lady  Lodore 
had  never  thought  of  this  till  a  few  months  back  ;  it  seemed  to  her,  that  sh^ 
had  never  known  it  until  now  —  that  she  felt  that  she  was  older  —  older 
than  the  vain  and  lovely  bride  of  Lodore  —  than  the  haughty  high-spirited 
frieid  of  Casimir  Lyzinski.  And  where  was  Casimir?  She  had  never 
hea-d  of  him  again,  she  mad  scarcely  ever  thought  of  him ;  he  had  grown 
older  too  —  change,  the  effects  of  passion  or  of  destiny,  must  have  visited 
him  also  ;  — they  were  all  embarked  on  one  mighty  stream  —Lodore  had 
gained  a  haven  ;  but  the  living  were  still  at  the  mercy  of  the  vast  torrent  — 
whither  would  it  hurry  them  ? 

There  was  a  charm  in  these  melancholy  and  speculative  thoughts  to  the 
beautiful  exile  —  for  we  may  be  indeed  as  easily  exiled  by  a  few  roods  of 
ground,  as  by  mountains  and  seas.  A  strong  decree  of  fate  banished  Cor- 
nelia from  the  familiar  past,  into  an  unknown  and  strange  present.  Still 
she  clung  to  the  recollection  of  by-gone  years,  and  for  the  first  time  gave 
way  to  reflections  fall  of  scenes  and  persons  to  be  seen  no  more.  The 
tomb  beside  which  she  lingered  was  an  outward  sign  of  these  past  events, 
and  she  did  not,  like  to  lose  sight  of  it  so  soon.     She  heard  that  Mrs.  Eliza- 


224  LODORE. 

beth  Fitzhenry  was  to  remain  away  for  a  month  —  so  much  time  at  least 
was  hers.  She  inquired  for  lodgings,  and  was  directed  to  Dame  Nixons 
cottage.  She  was  somewhat  dismayed  at  first  by  its  penurious  appearance, 
but  "  it  would  do  for  a  few  days  j"  and  she  found  that  what  would  serve 
for  a  few  days,  might  serve  for  months. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 

Most  true  for  solitary  man.  It  is  society  that  increases  his  desires.  Ji 
Lady  Lodore  had  been  visited  in  her  humble  dwelling  by  the  least  regarded 
among  her  acquaintances,  she  would  have  felt  keenly  its  glaring  deficien- 
cies. But  although  used  to  luxury,  Margaret's  cuisine  sufficed  for  herself 
alone ;  the  low-roofed  rooms  were  high  enough,  and  the  latticed  windows, 
which  let  in  the  light  of  heaven,  fulfilled  their  purpose  as  well  as  the  plate 
glass  and  lofty  embrasures  of  a  palace. 

Lady  Lodore  was  obliged  also  to  consider  one  other  thing,  which  forms 
so  large  a  portion  of  our  meditations  in  real  life  —  her  purse.  She  found, 
when  settled  in  the  cottage,  in  the  Vale  of  Bewling,  that  her  stock  of  money 
was  reduced  to  one  hundred  pounds.  She  could  not  cross  the  country  and 
establish  herself  at  a  distance  from  London  with  this  sum  only.  She  had 
before  looked  forward  to  selling  her  jewels  and  carriage  as  to  a  distant 
event,  but  now  she  felt  that  it  was  the  next  thing  she  must  do.  She  shrunk 
from  it  naturally  :  the  very  idea  of  revisiting  London  —  of  seeing  its  busy 
shops  and  streets  —  once  so  full  of  life  and  its  purposes  to  her,  and  in  which 
she  would  now  wander  an  alien,  was  inconceivably  saddening;  she  w>s 
Willing  to  put  off  the  necessity  as  long  as  possible,  and  thus  continued  to 
procrastinate  her  departure  from  Essex. 

Mrs.  Fitzhenry  returned  ;  but  she  could  neither  know  nor  dream  of  the 
vicinity  of  her  sister-in-law.  We  are  apt  to  think,  when  we  know  nothing 
of  any  one,  that  no  one  knows  any  thing  of  us  ;  experience  can  scarcely 
•teach  us,  that  the  reverse  of  this  is  often  the  truth:  Seeing  only  an  oid 
woman  in  her  dotage  —  and  a  poor  love-sick  girl,  who  knew  nothing  beyond 
the  one  event  which  had  blasted  all  her  happiness  —  she  never  heard  the 
inhabitants  of  Longfield  mentioned,  and  believed  that  she  was  equally 
unheard  of  by  them.  Then  her  indisposition  protracted  her  stay,  and  now 
the  mortal  illness  of  the  poor  woman.  For  she  had  become  interested  for 
Margaret,  and  promised  to  befriend  her ;  and  in  case  of  her  grandmother's 
death,  to  take  her  from  a  spot  where  every  association  and  appearance  kept 
.open  the  wounds  inflicted  by  her  unfaithful  lover. 

Time  had  thus  passed  on  :  now  sad,  now  cheerful,  she  tried  to  banish 
every  thought  of  the  future,  and  to  make  the  occurrences  of  each  day  fill 
and  satisfy  her  mind.  She  lived  obscurely  and  humbly,  and  perhaps  as 
wisely  as  mortal  may  in  this  mysterious  world,  where  hope  is  perpetually 
followed  by  disappointment,  and  action  by  repentance  and  regret.  The 
days  succeeded  to  each  other  in  one  unvaried  tenor.  The  weather  was 
cheerful,  the  breath  of  spring  animating.  She  watched  the  swelling  of  the 
buds  —  the  peeping  heads  of  the  crocuses  —  the  opening  of  the  anemones 
and  wild  wind-flowers,  and  at  last,  the  sweet  odour  of  the  new-born  violets, 
with  all  the  interest  created  by  novelty  ;  not  that  she  had  not  observed  and 
watched  these  things  before,  with  transitory  pleasure,  but  now  the  opera- 
tions of  nature  filled  all  her  world ;  the  earth  was  no  longer  merely  the 
dwelling  place  of  her  acquaintance,  the  stage  on  which  the  business  of  society 
was  carried  on,  but  the  mother  of  life  —  the  temple  of  God  —  the  beautiful 
and  varied  store-house  of  bounteous  nature. 

Dwelling  on  these  ideas,  Cornelia  often  thought  of  Horatio  Saville,  whoee 
conversations,  now  remembered,  were  the  source  whence  she  drew  the 


LODORE.  225 

knowledge  and  poetry  of  her  present  reveries.  As  solitude  and  nature  grew 
lovely  in  her  eyes,  she  yearned  yet  more  fondly  for  the  one  who  could  em- 
bellish all  she  saw.  Yet  while  her  mind  needed  a  companion  so  congenial 
to  her  present  fee'  n^s,  her  heart  was  filler  of  Ethel ;  her  affection  for  Saville 
was  a  cal'ii  though  deep-rooted  sentiment,  resulting  from  the  conviction, 
that,  she  s'loulu  find  entire  happiness  if  united  to  him,  and  in  an  esteem,  or 
rather  an  enthusiastic  admiration  of  his  talents  and  virtues,  that  led  her  to 
dwell  with  complacency  01  the  hope,  that,  he  still  remembered  and  loved 
her :  but  the  human  heart  rs  jealous,  and  with  difficulty  admits  two  emo- 
tions of  equal  force,  and  her  love  for  her  daughter  was  the  master  passion. 
The  instinct  of  nature  spoke  audibly  within  her;  the  atoms  of  her  frame 
seemed  alive  each  one  as  she  thought  of  her ;  often  her  tears  flowed,  often 
her  eves  brightened  with  gladness  when  alone,  and  the  beloved  image  of  her 
beautiful  daughter  as  she  saw  her  last,  smiling  amidst  penury  and  indignity, 
was  her  dearest  companion  by  day  and  ni  ^ht.  She  alone  made  her  present 
situation  endurable,  and  yet  separation  from  her  was  irksome  beyond  ex- 
pres=ioi.  Was  she  never  to  see  or  hear  of  her  more  ?  It  was  very  hard  : 
she  i  nolo-ed  Providence  to  change  the  harsh  decree —  she  longed  inexpres- 
sibly for  one  wo-xl  that  had  reference  to  her  —  one  event,  however  slight, 
which  should  make  her  existence  palpable. 

When  Mar  raret  announced  Mrs.  Fitzhenry,  her  heart  bounded  with  joy. 
She  conld  ask  concerning  Ethel  — hear  of  her  ;  her  countenance  was  radi- 
ant with  delight.  anH  she  really  for  a  moment  thought  her  sister-in-law's 
visit  was  meant  in  kindness,  since  so  much  pleasure  was  the  result.  This 
conviction  had  produced  the  very  thin^  it  anticipated.  She  had  given  poor 
B^ssv  no  tine  to  announce  the  actual- intention  with  which  she  came  ;  she 
had  borne  away  her  sullen  mood  by  force  of  sweet  smiles  and  sweeter 
wo  -ds ;  and  saw  her  depart  with  gladdened  spirits,  whi^perins:  to  herself 
th  ^  fresh  hopes  and  fond  emotions  which  filled  her  bosom.  She  walked 
back  to  her  little  garden,  and  stooped  to  gather  some  fresh  violets  and  to 
prop  a  drooping  jonquil  heavy  with  its  burden  of  sweet  blooms.  She 
inhaled  the  vernal  odours  with  rapture.  "  Yes,"  she  thought,  "  nature  is 
the  refuge  and  home  for  woman :  they  have  no  public  career  —  no  aim  nor 
end  beyond  their  domestic  circle  ;  but  they  can  extend  that,  and  make  all 
the  creations  of  nature  thQir  own,  to  foster  and  do  good  to.  We  complain, 
when  &hut  up  in  cities,  of  the  niggard  rules  of  society,  which  gives  us  only 
the  drawing-room  or  ball-room  in  which  to  display  our  talents,  and  which, 
for  ever  turning  the  svmoathy  of  those  around  us  into  envy  on  the  part  of 
women,  or  what  is  called  love  on  that  of  men,  besets  our  path  with  dangers 
or  sorrows.  But  throw  aside  all  vanity,  no  longer  seek  to  surpass  your  own 
sex,  nor  to  inspire  the  other  with  feelings  which  are  pregnant  with  disquiet 
or  misery,  and  which  seldom  end  in  mutual  benevolence,  turn  your  steps  to 
the  habitation  which  God  has  oriven  as  befitting  his  creatures,  contemplate 
the  lovelv  o-naments  with  which  he  has  blessed  the  earth :  —  here  is  no 
heart-burning  nor  calumnv  ;  it  is  better  to  love,  to  be  of  use  to  one  of  these 
flowers,  than'to  be  the  admired  of  the  many  —  the  mere  puppet  of  one's 
own  vanity." 

Lady  Lodore  entered  the  house  ;  she  asked  concerning  her  poor  hostess, 
and  learned  that  she  slept.  For  a  short  time  she  emploved  herself  with  her 
embroidery  ;  her  thouihts  were  all  awake  ;  and  as  her  fingers  created  like- 
nesses of  the  flowers  she  loved,  several  times  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she 
thought  of  Ethel,  and  how  happy  she  could  be  if  her  fate  permitted  her  to 
cultivate  her  affection  and  enioy  her  society. 

"  It  is  v  n-v  sad,"  she  thought. :  "  only  a  few  minutes  a  20  my  spirits  were 
buovant.  <?laddmed  as  they  were  by  Bessv's  visit  •' but  they  flag  asain, 
when  1  think  of  mv  loneliness  and  the  unreplying  silence  of  this  place.  What 
is  to  become  of  me?  I  shall  remain  here  :  yes ;  I  shall  not  banish  myself  to 


226  LODORE. 

some  inhospitable  nook,  where  I  should  never  hear  her  name.  But  am  1 
not  to  see  her  again  ?  Am  I  to  be  nothing  to  her?  Is  she  satisfied  with 
my  absence  —  and  are  they  all  —  all  to  whom  I  am  bound  by  ti  s  of  consan- 
guinity or  affection,  indifferent  to  the  knowledge  of  whether  I  exist  or  not  ? 
Nothing  gives  token  to  them  of  my  life  ;  it  is  as  if  the  grave  had  closed 
abruptly  over  me  —  and  had  it  closed,  thus  I  should  have  been  mourned,  in 
coldness  and  neglect." 

Again  her  eyes  were  suffused  ;  but.  as  she  wiped  away  the  blinding  tears, 
she  was  recalled  from  her  reflections  by  the  bright  rays  of  the  sun,  which 
entered  her  little  room.  She  threw  open  the  door,  stepped  out  into  the  gai- 
den  —  the  sun  was  setting  ;  the  atmosphere  was  calm,  and  lighted  up  by 
golden  bsams  ;  the  few  clouds  were  died  in  the  same  splendid  hues,  the 
hi  ds  sent  forth  a  joyous  song  at  intervals,  and  a  band  of  rooks  passed  above 
the  little  wood,  cawing  loudly.  The  air  was  balmy,  the  indescribable  fresh- 
ness of  spring  was  abroad,  interpenetrating  and  cheerful.  Cornelia's  mel- 
ancholy fled,  as  she  felt  and  gave  way  to  its  influence.  "  God  blesses  all 
things,"  she  thought,  "and  he  will  also  bless  me.  Much  wrons  have  I 
done,  but  love  pure  and  disinterested  is  in  my  heart,  and  I  shall  be  repaid. 
My  own  sweet  Ethel !  I  have  sacrificed  every  thing  except  my  life  for  your 
sake,  and  I  would  add  my  life  to  the  gift,  could  it  avail  you.  1  ask  but  for 
you  and  your  love.  The  world  has  many  blessings,  and  I  have  asked  for 
them  before,  with  tears  and  anguish,  but  I  give  up  all  now,  except  you,  my 
child.  You  are  all  the  world  to  me !  Will  you  not  come,  even  now,  as  I 
implore  Heaven  to  give  you  to  me  ?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  in  prayer,  and  it  seemed  as  if  her  wishes  were  to  be 
accomplished  —  surely  once  in  a  life  God  will  grant  the  earnest  entreaty  of 
a  loving  heart.  Cornelia  believed  that  he  would,  that  happiness  was  near  at 
hand,  and  life  not  all  a  blank.  She  heard  a  rustling  among  the  trees,  alight 
step  ;  —  was  it  Margaret?  She  had  scarcely  asked  herself  this  question, 
when  the  dear  object  of  her  every  thought  and  hope  was  before  her  —  in  her 
arms  ;  —  Ethel  had  entered  from  the  wood,  had  seen  her  mother,  had  sprung 
forward  and  clasped  her  to  her  heart. 
"  My  dear,  dear  child  !" 

"  Dearest  mother !"  repeated  Ethel,  as  her  eyes  were  filled* with  tears  of 
delight,  "  why  did  you  go  —  why  conceal  yourself?  You  do  not  know  the 
anxiety  we  have  suffered,  and  how  very  unhappy  your  absence  has  made  us. 
But  1  have  found  you  —  of  all  that  have  gone  to  seek  you,  I  have  found 
you  ;   I  deserve  this  reward,  for  I  love  you  most  of  all." 

Lady  Lodore  returned  her  daughter's  caresses  —  and  her  tears  flowed 
fast  for  very  joy,  and  then  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Fitzhenry,  who  followed 
Ethel,  but  who  had  been  outspeeded  by  her  in  her  eagerness.  The  old 
lady's  face  was  beaming  with  happiness.  "  Ah,  Bessy,  you  have  betrayed 
me — traitress  !  I  did  not  expect  this  —  I  do  not  deserve  such  excessive 
happiness." 

"  You  deserve  all,  and  much  more  than  we  can  any  of  us  bestow,"  cried 
Ethel,  "  except  that  your  dear  generous  heart  will  repay  you  beyond  any 
reward  we  can  °;ive,  and  you  will  be  blest  in  the  happiness  we  owe  to  you 
alone.     Edward  is  gone  far  away  into  Wales  in  quest  of  you." 

"An  Angelica  run  after  by  the  Paladins,"  said  Lady  Lodore,  smiling 
through  her  tears. 

"  Paladins,  worthy  the  name  !"  replied  Ethel.  "  Horatio  is  even  now  on 
the  salt  seas  for  your  sake  —  he  is  returning  discomfited  and  hopeless  from 
his  journey  of  discovery  to  the  Pyrenees — his  zeal  almost  deserved  the 
reward  which  I  have  found  ;  yet  who  but  she,  for  whom  you  sacrificed  s? 
much,  ought  to  be  the.first  to  thank  you  ?  And  while  we  all  try  to  show 
you  an  inexpressible  gratitude,  ought  not  I  to  be  the  first  to  see,  first  to  kiss, 
first  —  always  the  first  —  to  love  you^' 

^  \ 


IDDORE.  227 


CHAPTER  LV. 

N"ne,  I  trust, 
Repines  at  these  delights,  thpy  ;ire  free  and  hanmlemi 
Af  er  di  tress  nl  sea   the  dangers  o'er, 
Safety  and  welcomes  better  taste  ashore. 

Ford. 

Thus  the  tale  of  "  Lodore"  is  ended.  The  person  who  bore  that  title  by 
right  of  descent  has  long  slept  in  peace  in  the  church  of  his  native  village. 
Neither  his  own  passions,  nor  those  of  others,  can  renew  the  pulsations  of 
his  heart  "  The  silver  cord  is  loosed, "  and  the  pitcher  broken  at  the 
fountain."  His  life  had  not  been  fruitless.  The  sedulous  care  and  ad- 
mirable education  he  had  bestowed  on  Ethel,  would,  had  he  lived,  have 
compensated  to  him  for  his  many  sufferings,  and  been  a  source  of  pure  and 
unfading  joy  to  the  end.  He  was  not  destined  in  this  world  to  reap  the 
harvest  of  his  virtues,  though  his  errors  had  been  punished  severely.  Still 
nis  memory  is  the  presiding  genius  of  his  daughter's  life,  and  the  name  of 
Lodore  contains  for  her  a  spell  that  dignifies  existence  in  he1- own  eyes,  and 
incites  her  to  render  all  her  thoughts  and  actions  such  as  her  b<  loved  father 
would  have  approved.  It  was  fated  that  the  evil  which  he  did  should  die 
with  him  —  but  the  good  outlived  him  long,  and  was  a  blessiug  to  those 
whom  he  loved  far  better  than  himself. 

She  who  received  the  title  on  her  marriage,  henceforth  continued  her 
existence  under  another;  and  tii*3  wife  of  Saville,  who  soon  after  became 
Viscountess  Manstow,  loses  her  right  to  be  chronicled  in  these  pages.  So 
few  years  indeed  are  passed  since  the  period  to  which  the  last  chapter 
b-ought  us,  that  it  may  be  safely  announced  that  Cornelia  Santerre  pos- 
sesses that  happiness,  through  her  generosity  and  devoted  affection,  which 
she  had  lost  .through  pride  and  self- exaltation.  She  wonders  at  her  past 
self —  and  laments  the  many  opportunities  she  lost  for  benefiting  others, 
and  proving  herself  wo'thy  of  their  attachment.  Her  pride  is  gone,  or 
rather,  her  pride  is  now  placed  in  redeeming  her  faults.  She  is  humble, 
knowing:  how  much  she  was  deceived  in  herself — she  is  forgiving,  for  she 
fe°ls  that  she  needs  forgiveness.  She  looks  on  the  track  of  years  she  has 
passed  over  as  wasted,  and  she  wishes  to  retrieve  their  loss.  She  respects, 
ad  ni,-es,  in  some  sense  it  may  be  said  that  she  adores  her  husband  ;  but 
even  while  consenting  to  be  his,  and  thus  securing'  her  own  happiness,  she 
told  him  that  her  frst  duties  were  towards  Ethel  —  and  that  he  took  a 
divided  hea't,  over  the  better  part  of  which  reigned  maternal  love.  ?  aville, 
the  least  egoistic  of  human  beings,  smiled  to  hear  her  name  that  a  detect, 
wh:ch  was  in  his  eves  her  crowning  virtue. 

Edward  Villiers  learned  to  prize  wo  Idly  prosperity  at  its  true  value,  and 
eaeh  dav  bless  ^a  the  train  of  circumstances  that  led  him  to  wed  Ethel,  even 
thou  m  pove  tv  and  suffering  had  followed  close  behind.  Ethel  herself 
mi  *ht  be  said  to  have  been  alwavs  happy.  She  was  incapable  of  being 
imo'essed  by  anv  sorrow,  that  did  not  touch  her  for  another's  sake :  and 
while  she  exerted  h°rself  to  alleviate  th°  pain  endured  by  those  she  loved, 
she  passed  on  unhurt.  Heaven  spared  her  life's  most  cruel  evils.  Death 
had  done  its  worst  when  she  lost  her  father.  Now,  surrounded  by  dear 
friends,  and  the  obj°ct  of  her  husband  s  constant  tenderness,  she  pursues  a 
tranquil  course:  which  for  any  one  to  consider  the  most  blissful  allotted  to 
mortals,  they  must  have  a  heart  like  her  own  —  faithful,  affectionate,  and 
generous. 


'22$  L-ODORE. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Fitzhenry,  Kind  and  gentle  Aunt  Bessy,  always  felt  h«f 
heaven  clouded  while  she  indulged  in  her  aversion  to  her  sister-in-law.  She 
is  happy  now  that  she  is  reconciled  to  Cornelia ;  strange  to  say,  she  loves 
her  even  more  than  she  loves  Ethel  —  she  is  more  intimately  connected  in 
her  mind  with  the  memory  of  Lodore.  She  often  visits  her  at  Maristow 
Castle;  in  the  neighbourhood  of  which  Margaret  is  settled,  being  happily 
married.  Colonel  Villiers  still  lives  in  Paris.  He  is  in  a  miserable  s'aic 
of  poverty  difficulty,  and  ill  health.  His  wife  has  deserted  hjm  :  he  neg- 
lected and  outraged  her,  and  she  in  a  fit  of  remorse  left  him,  and  returneu 
to  nurse  her  father  during  a  lingering  illness,  which  is  likely  to  continue 
to  the  end  of  his  life,  though  he  shows  no  symptoms  of  immediate  decay, 
He  is  eager  to  lavish  all  his  wealth  on  his  child,  if  he  can  be  sure  that  no 
portion  of  it  is  shared  by  her  husband.  With  infinite  difficulty,  and  at  the 
cosf  of  many  privations,  she,  with  a  true  woman  s  feeling,  contrives  to 
send  him  remittances  now  and  then,  though  she  receives  in  return  neither 
thanks  nor  kindness.  He  pursues  a  course  of  dissipation  in  its  most  de- 
graded form  —  a  wretched  hanger-on  at  resorts,  misnamed  of  plrasu  e — 
gambling  while  he  has  any  money  to  lose  —  tiying  to  ruin  others  as  he  has 
been  ruined. 

Thus  we  have  done  our  duty  in  bringing  under  view,  in  a  brief  sum- 
mary, the  little  that  there  is  to  tell  of  the  personages  who  formed  the  drama 
of  this  tale.  One  only  remains  to  be  mentioned  :  but  it  is  not  in  a  ft  w 
tame  lines  that  we  can  revert  to  the  varied  fate  of  Fanny  Derham.  She 
continued  for  some  time  among  her  beloved  friends,  innocent  anJ  caliu  as 
she  was  beautiful  and  wise  ;  circumstances  at  last  led  her  away  from  them, 
and  she  has  entered  upon  life.  One  who  feels  so  deeply  for  others,  and 
yet  is  so  stern  a  censor  over  herself — at  once  so^ensitive  an^l  so  rigidly 
conscientious  —  so  single-minded  and  upright,  |and  yet  open  as  day  to 
charity  and  affection,  cannot  hope  to  pass  from  youth  to  age  unhauned. 
Deceit,  and  selfishness,  and  the  whole  web  of  human  passion  must  env<  lop 
her,  and  occasion  her  many  sorrows  ;  and  the  unworthiness  of  her  fellow- 
creatures  inflict  infinite  pain  on  her.  noble  heait :  still  she  cannot  be  con- 
taminated—  she  will  turn  neither  to  the  ri°:ht  nor  left,  but  pursue  her  way 
unflinching  ;  and,  in  her  lofty  idea  of  the  dignity  of  her  nature,  in  her  love 
of  truth  and  in  her  integrity,  she  will  find  support,  and  reward  in  her  various 
fortunes.  What  the  events  are.  that  have  already  diversified  her  existence, 
cannot  now  be  recounted  ;  und  it  would  require  the  pift  of  pvophecy  to 
foretell  the  conclusion.  In  after  times  these  may  be  told,  and  the  life  of 
Fanny  Derham  be  presented  as  a  useful  lesson,  at  once  to  teach  what 
goodness  and  genius  can  achieve  in  palliating  the  woes  of  life,  and  to  en- 
courage those,  who  would  in  any  way  imitate  her,  by  an  example  of 
calumny  refuted  by  patience,  errors  rectified  by  charity,  and  the  passions 
of  our  nature  purified  and  ennobled  by  an  undeviating  observance  of  those 
moral  la  we  on  which  all  human  excellence  is  founded  —  a  love  of  truth  in 
ourselves,  and  a  sincere  sympathy  with  our  fellow-creatures. 


THE    END    OF    LODORE. 


'«• 


I 


i 


